The Sex Without Sentiment

Library ^’orm No. 7

Government of Tripura

: .Library

Class No.

Book No. . ."T

Ace. .norvi^^' •• •

The Sex Without Sentiment

Books by

THYRA SAMTER WINSLOW

PICTUBE FRAMES
BLUEBERRY PIE
PEOPLE ROUND THE CORNER
SHOW BUSINESS
MY OWN MY NATIVE LAND
WINDOW PANES
THINK YOURSELF THIN
THE WINSLOW WEIGHT WATCHER

THE SEX WITHOUT SENTIMENT

The Sex

Without Sentiment

Short Stories written with Understanding
but without Sentiment

by

Thyra Samter Winslow

ABELARD - SCHUMAN

LONDON AND NEW YORK

FIRST PUBLISHED IN GREAT BRITAIN 1917

Printed m the U.S.A. and bound in Great Britain
by Nevett Ltd,^ Colindaley Lnndony
for the Publishers^ Abelard-Schuman Limited^
38 Russell Square y Londony IV.C.l.

FOR KATHRYN BOURNE

The best fiction editor in America
in my opinion, undoubtedly biased
because on three publications she
published over hglf of these stories.

Thanks are due to the editors of Cosmo-
politan, Good Housekeeping, Harpers
Bazaar, Journal of Living, The American
Magazine, The New Yorker, Todays
Woman and Womans Day, for their per-
mission to reprint these stories.

CONTENTS

A Lamb Chop for the Little Dog 1

More Like Sisters : 17

Sophie Jackson 25

%

The Actress 43

Girls in Black 63

The Bronzes of Martel Greer 85

Dear Sister Sadie 102

Interview 125

Obsession 143

Rudolph 165

Technique 173

The Odd Old Lady 205

Angie Lee’s Fortune 221

The Misses Grant 239

Fur Flies 248

Mrs. Wilson’s Husband Goes for a Swim 267

Hotel Dog 301

The Other Woman 307

A LAMB CHOP FOR
THE LITTLE DOG

I N A THOUSAND YEARS it ncver would
have occurred to Mrs. Taylor to get
a dog. Wliy, a dog is almost as much
a nuisance as a child and can’t grow up and support you
when you grow old. Mrs. Taylor had never even had a
pet while Mr. Taylor was alive.

Mrj. Taylor lived in a one-room apartment in a huge
brick building, though, as shy always pointed out, it really
wasn’t one room. There was a nice little living room with
two big windows. A bathroom with lovely orchid tiles
opened off a tiny foyer. And how many one-room apart-
ments have fo>ers at all? There was a dressing room, too,
and a kitchenette, complete even to electric refrigerator.

In the living room was the tapestry three-piece set
which had been in the big apartment before Mr. Taylor
died, several tables, one opening out so you could eat on
it, and two straight chairs. And Mrs. Taylors pride— a blue
and gold Chinese rug with deep cutouts. The walls were
ivory, the curtains blue and gold silk. A disappearing bed
was concealed, daytimes, behind doors.

Mrs. Taylor thought the apartment was very nice. It
was easy to keep clean, too, and she liked everything in
apple-pie order.

She really couldn’t afford the apartment. Mr. Taylor

had left life insurance and had saved besides, but these
didn’t give Mrs. Taylor a great deal. Economists would
have been horrified to learn that rent took half of h^
income. But she wanted to "live nicely” and a woman
alone doesn’t need a great deal. She didn’t eat much and
she bought so few things to wear. She hated to think of
living in a messy place. This neat little nest was her only
luxury— all she had.

Mrs. Taylor woke up at seven, just as she had done
when her husband was alive. She got thi* newspap^ from
the door, glanced at the headlines. She made the bed,
then pushed it up out of the way. No one ever came in,
mornings, but you never can tell. She prepared breakfast.
Toast and coffee and marmalade. Mr. Taylor had liked
bacon and eggs. She cleaned up, dusting vigorously. Then
she read her newspaper again. Thoroughly. Slowly. News
and feature columns.

Sometimes she telephoned an acquaintance, making a
date for shopping or bridge.*

The morning over, she had a lunch of canned soup
or a bit of left-over.

All this time she had kept on her nightgown, her cotton
negligee over it. Around one o’clock she dressed.

She played bridge, then, or shopped rather futilely,
sending most of the diings C.O.D. and not accepting them.
Or she spent the afternoon reading or domg her nails or
puttering, going out at foiu: to do her bit of shopping.

Dinner, then. A small piece of meat and a frozen or
occasionally a fresh vegetable, especially when lima beans
or com were not too expensive. Or a meal in a neighbor-
hood restaurant. Soup. A breaded meat with gummy gravy.
A caimed vegetable. Cole slaw. An inexpensive pudding.

A movie perhaps once a week. Or buying a newsmag-
azine and back in negligee again, reading in the chair that
stood under the bridge lamp. Sometimes for days she didn’t

•2

speak to anyone, except over the telephone or casually
to die grocer’s clerk. She never had been a great one to
rnake friend^

When Mr. Taylor was alive diey had gone widi some
of his business' acquaintances and their wives, together
with a few stray women Mrs. Taylor knew. Since Mr. Tay-
lor’s death the couples had rather disappeared. An odd
woman doesn’t quite fit in when she hasn’t money for
entertaining. Mrs. Taylor telephoned these women occasion-
ally, and she played bridge or went shopping with one of
the strays, mostly widows like herself.

Once a year she was invited to luncheon in Larchmont
with Mrs. Burrows, a second cousin, who was very ridh.
She spent most of the visit being shown the place and
listening to what an exciting life the Burrowses led. She
talked about the visit long after it was over.

It was Mrs. Green, wife of Rufus Green, one of Mr.
Taylor’s friends, who telephoned Mrs. Tavlor about the dog.

“Since we’ve planned to* live in England,” Mrs. Green
said, “I haven’t had a minute to call yon. But I feel that of
all our friends I’d rather have you have Frisky. I can’t
take her into England without six months’ quarantine and
she’d never live through Aat. You know how sensitive
she isl”

“Take Frisky! Why—” Mrs. Taylor’s voice was high,
uneven.

“I’m giving her to youl” Mrs. Green was soothing, sweet.
“I said to Rufus I’d be satisfied if you had Frisl^. You
haven’t any children to annoy her and you wouldn’t go
awav week ends and leave her with servants.”

“But I—” began Mrs. Taylor again.

“I know how surprised you are,” Mrs. Green went on.
"I wouldn’t dream of giving Frisky away if we weren’t
going abroad. I’ll miss her dreadfully. She sleeps on my

3

bed and drinks right out of my glass. She understands
everything I say. You know how smart she is.”

'Tes, I know,” said Mrs. Taylor. She thouj^t she knew«

“I’ll bring her over on Tuesday,” said Mrs. Green.
"We’re sailing on 'Thursday.”

Mrs. Taylor didn’t know what to say. Her little one-
room apartment was so perfect. She didn’t need a dog.
A dozen times she started to telephone Mrs. Green.
Yet when Tuesday came and Mrs. Gi'^en did not arrive,
she was actually a little disappointed.

On 'Thursday morning Mrs. Green came with Frisky.

“I just couldn’t bear to part with her a minute sooner,”
she said. “I knew you’d understand. I’ve written down
everything. Hamburger if she’ll eat it, though she prefers
a lamb chop. A green vegetable, though you’ll have to
beg her to take it or cut it up fine in her meat. A bone
to chew on. And no potatoes or chicken bones. But I
guess you knew that.”

Mrs. Taylor didn’t know.. She didn’t know anything
about dogs.

Mrs. Green kissed Frisky on her little brown nose.

“I hate to leave her,” she said. “But I know she’ll have
a good home. She’s so sweet. Minds everything I say.
She really seems almost human. Take her out the first thing
in the morning and the last thing at night. And once during
the day. She’s perfectly housebroken. She’ll probably cry
for a night or two, but after that she’ll be just fine.”

She addressed the dog. “©o’!! be ust fine wizzout oo
Muzzy, won’t oo? Werry dood for new Muzzy? Doo by.
Muzzy’s darlin'l” And Mrs. Green was gone.

Mrs. Taylor and Frisky looked at each other. Mrs. Tay-
lor sat down. Frisky continued to stand. 'They didn’t seem
to get very far that way.

Frisky was a Pomeranian. A brown Pom. If you had

4

judged Frisky impartially at the bench, you’d have had to
adjnit that she was not a cobby bitch. Her hair was too
short, too, but she was pert and saucy and she held her
tail well. Her tl)in, lively little legs, a bit ostrich-like, gave
her a piquant appearance.

“Here, Friskyl” Mrs. Taylor called, timidly.

Frisky ran to the door and whimpered. Did that mean
Frisky wanted to go out? Or did she want to follow Mrs.
Green?

“Come here, Frisky,” she repeated more firmly. Frisky
whimpered. Evidently Mrs. Green was the only one she
understood and obeyed with her almost human intelligence.

“Friskyl” said Mrs. Taylor sternly. Frisky gave two
whimpers and a bark. A high, tremulous bark. Well, she
wanted something. There was no use taking chancy.

Frisky wanted many things. She begged to go out far
more often than Mrs. Green had predicted. And she
was not entirely housebroken. Or she had a poor memory.
Her forgetfulness did not hdlp Mrs. Taylor’s blue and gold
Chinese rug.

Mrs. Taylor’s peaceful days were over. In the morning,
instead of keeping on her nightgown, she had to dress and
take Frisky down in the elevator and, outside of the apart-
ment building, had to pretend she didn’t see Frisky at all
and yet keep a good watch over her so she didn’t run
in the street and get killed. During the first weeks she
sometimes thought that would be a good way out.

Back in the apartment Frisky needed attention. Her
coat had to be brushed. And she had a way of rolling in
the dirt, which meant she needed bathing far oftener than
if she had kept herself erect on her four spindle legs.
She^grabbed at bedroom slippers, chewed the corners of
the rug, always wanted to be played with.

During the first week she whined every night. And

5

barked too much during the day. After that she was quiet
enough, though she did have a way of jumping on the
bed just when Mrs. Taylor was falling asleep. And she
yowled if she were locked in the kitchenette or hath.

Her dinner had to he carefully prepared. She turned
up her httle brown nose at all of the canned dog foods..
Mrs. Taylor knew if she let Frisky go hungry she’d eat
canned food. But she was so little. That did seem unneces-
sarily cruel. So Mrs. Taylor bought hei a little lamb chop
nearly every night. And she had always felt she couldn’t
afford lamb chops for herself! She would broil the chop,
cut it into tiny pieces and mix it with a little fresh vege-
table— and what a bother it was always to have a green
vegetable. Frisky ate every bit of her meal and then played
with the lamb chop bone.

Even a humorous letter, written to Frisky by Mrs.
dressed so she could take Frisky out. Some nights she put
her coat on over her nightgown, but she felt terribly
undressed that way. A dog v^as an awful nuisance.

Even a humorous letter written to Frisky by Mrs.
Green, didn’t make her feel any better. Mrs. Green had
got out of it. And what did she mean writing to Frisky?
She wasn’t Mrs. Green’s dog.

In curious ways Mrs. Taylor’s life changed. Not only
because she had to be dressed early and late and had to
buy an extra lamb chop.

Making new acquaintances, for one thing. Until Frisky’s
advent Mrs. Taylor never dreamed of speaking to strangers.
Now, with a friendly, perky, little dog, it was hard to avoid
advances. Most of them were made in good faith, she
found out.

“May I pet your little dog?” “Does your little dog bite?”
and, “What kind of a dog is that?” were the commonest
beginnings. Just a curt “Yes” or “No, she doesn’t,” or

6

"PamOTanian” sufficed. Or you could be a little wanner
and hear about the dog the stranger had or used to have.
These encounters were without significance.

The important encounters were with people who had
dogs. Until now Mrs. Taylor had been, in a way, unaware
.of anyone else with a dog. She had seen dogs on the
street, had never paid any attention to them.

Now she was absmrdly conscious of dogs. Each person
with a dog became, in some mysterious fashion, an intimate
friend. Mrs. Taylor found herself discussing dogs. Whether
it was easier to have a small or a large dog in an apart-
ment, with die owner, male, of a police dog. She talked
with apparent deep feeling about muzzles to the owner,
female, of a darling wire-haired. She admired the antics of a
Scotch terrier and compared the charms of his short legs
to Frisky’s comparatively long ones.

A whole world opened to Mrs. Taylor— a camaraderie
the existence of which she had never known. She learned
about baths, societies, and sRows for dogs. She was a little
chagrined because she had not asked Mrs. Green about a
pedigree. It would be like Mrs. Green to get a dog with
no background! She was sure Frisky had never won honors
in the ring.

She joined, night and morning, the dog owners of her
neighborhood. They all knew each other. She wasn’t just
Mrs. Taylor, living alone in a one-room apartment, but
the owner of Frisky, part of a group, someone of importance.
There was always something gay to be said.

In the shops it was different, too: more than routine.
Clerks petted Frisky’s little brown head. The grocer would
say, “How’s the little dog today? A lively little fellow.”

'Hie vegetable man would smile .sympathetically over
the order of “Twenty-five cents worth of green beans,”
give extra measure— and tell about his own dog, a white

•7

poodle. Smartest dog you ever saw. He’d sit for five min-
utes on his hind legs without moving a muscle.

Trafficking with the butcher formerly had been with-
out character. Mrs. Taylor had never understood how
women got so friendly with tradespeople. She had ordered,
as part of her unexciting day, a small steak, a bit of ground
meat. Seriously. With no superfluous conversation.

This was all changed, now. She g.ive her order with a
smile. Her own portion of meat first. Then the butcher
would say teasingly, “I guess you’ve forgotten all about
your little Frisky.”

And she’d laugh and say of course she had not forgotten
her. Add, almost coyly, “And a nice lamb chop for the
little dog.”

In restaurants it was different, too. If a restaurant didn’t
like dogs, Mrs. Taylor, her head high, would flounce out.
Frisky under her arm, feeling insulted but important. In
other restaurants Frisky was made much of. A chair was
pushed up to the table for h&r. She’d sit there, her bright
eyes surveying the scene. Waiter, customers, even the
manager, sometimes, would come to the table.

“What a good little dog!” they’d say. “A person can get
so attached to a dog!” Eating in a restaurant was almost
a ceremony.

Things weren’t so nice when Mrs. Taylor went to see
her second cousin in Larchmont. The Burrowses had dogs
of their own. Mrs. Taylor had seen the great, hulking
creatures, had never liked them. She brought Frisky
because she always took her everyplace, except to the
movies; wouldn’t have thought of leaving her alone all day.

Mrs. Taylor was invited to luncheon, but she always
thought that meant spending the day. She made the* trip
holding Frisky on her lap and was awfully afraid the little
creature would get train-sick on her best dress. Frisky

8

acted very well in the train and in the car which met
them at the station.

Mrs. Taylor was a little hurt when Mrs. Burrows failed
to be enthusiastic over Frisky. She always was too patron-
izing. Nothing but her own things ever were first ratel
>Vho was she, anyhow? Why, she wasn’t used to dogs
nearly as good as this little Pom!

Frisky didn’t behave very well. She forgot the most
important of her manners. Mrs. Bmrows said that her dogs,
prize winners, stayed in the kennels where dogs belonged.
Mrs. Taylor said that her dog went everyplace she did
and tried to convey that she usually visited homes quite
superior to the Burrows’.

Before this, Mrs. Taylor had always spent the time at
her rich cousin’s admiring the fumitiure, the just-purchased
antiques. Now she was aloof, superior. She knew when she
left, Frisky tight in her arm, she wouldn’t be invited again.
Well, she’d never had a good time.

After that, Mrs. Taylor found herself liking Frisky for
herself. Not the deep emotion of a real dog lover, per-
haps, but something far more than mere indifference. Some-
times she’d seize the little, brown, furry bundle and hug
it fiercely. After all, with Mr. Taylor dead, there was no
one else she really cared about. She felt that the little dog
understood, cared for her, too.

But there were many more times when she was
annoyed with Frisky. The spots on the Chinese rug that
the chairs wouldn’t cover. Being waked up by a little dog
who “wanted out,” though she’d been out two hours before.
The run in her be.st stockings because small, insistent paws
had begged for attention. But, as she laughingly told Mr.
Smythe, the distinguished owner of the Scottie, who went
for his outings when Frisky did, "You don’t mind putting
up with a lot of things when you’ve got a dog."

9

Some of Mrs. Taylor’s acquaintances didn’t care for
Frisky. Well, she felt she could save a lot of dimes by not
telephoning them. There were enough people in the world,
luckily, who were real dog lovers.

Frisky became ill. At first Mrs. Taylor tried to think it
was nothing at all. She gave her castor oil capsules, fob
lowing the advice of the owner of the French poodle.
Frisky continued lethargic. None of the other advice, given
in turn by the owners of the red chiw, the beagle, and
the cocker spaniel, had any effect. Frisky belied her name.
Her little brown nose was warm. She hung her head and
her tail.

Mrs. Taylor took her to the hospital in a taxicab. She
knew she couldn’t afford the taxi nor the hospital. Oh, well,
she really didn’t need a new hat. And while Frisky was
away she wouldn’t need the extra lamb chop, could live
mostly on canned soup.

Frisky didn’t get better. Mrs. Taylor went to the hos-
pital every day. She told £&1 of her acquaintances who
owned dogs about Frisky, though, when she didn’t have
to go out early in the morning or late at night, it was
hard to keep in touch with them. They were most sympa-
thetic, understood how she felt. They told about dogs they
had had who had been ill.

Frisky died. Mrs. Taylor paid the hospital bill and wept
many tears. She was surprised at herself. She wouldn’t
have believed it possible that she— or anyone else— could
have grown to care so deeply for a funny little dog.

Maybe it was for the best, she told herself. Maybe
she never was a person who should have had a dog. Well,
she’d been good to the little thing. Now she could settle
down, be herself again.

She cleaned the one-room apartment from comer to
comer. She polished the floor until you could see your

• 10 *

reflection. She brushed the furniture until it looked almost
like new. The brown hairs which once had annoyed her
so much were* all gone. The last hidden chop bone was
discovered. No longer would she fear to stq) on a rubber
ball in the dark. Everything was in order. Frisky was dead.
It was too bad. But that was that.

But unfortunately, that wasn’t that. Li{e seemingly had
gone back to the way it was before Frisky had disrupted
things, but actually nothing was the same. Mrs. Taylor
would wake up and get the newspaper. She’d dawdle over
her breakfast. And tell herself how grand it was she didn’t
have to dress early. Yet she was unreasonably restless.
Unhappy. All around her she seemed to see an eager little
brown face, a darting pink tongue. She seemed always to
be hearing a sharp, insistent little bark. How silly!

It was even worse when she went out of doors. Sud-
denly Mrs. Taylor found that no one paid any attention
to her!

Before she had Frisky it rftver occurred to Mrs. Taylor
that she was practically invisible. She had worn dark,
decent clothes and thought that people treated her very
well. Now she saw, curiously enough, that no one noticed
her. She went out on the street— and it was just as if she
were not there!

The morning and evening groups of dog owners had
been properly sympathetic over Frisky’s passing. Mrs. Tay-
lor had made a point of telling in detail about Frisky’s
end. She couldn’t keep that up. And without a dog she
was no longer one of them.

She telephoned to her old friends the way she had
done before she had Frisky. But even the telephoning had
lost its savor. She took long walks and no one spoke to her.
Before she had Frisky, had she walked wraidilike, unseen?

To the clerks in tlie shops she became again a colorless,
routine customer. 'They waited on her mechanically. She

11

didn’t exactly want to attract attention. But she did want
to feel alive.

She didn’t know what to do with her 'time. She had
always known what to do before. Now she woke up in the
morning, liurriedly started to dress. Then .she remembered.
There was no reason to dress at all. All day she was dis-
contented, lonely. Waiting for something to happen, even
while she told herself that nothing ever would.

She began looking into pet shop \'indows. Of course,
the puppies looked cute. They always looked cute in shop
windows. What of it? She wasn’t going to buy a dog. It
would be silly, spending money for a dog. Anyhow, she
couldn’t afford it. It would mean going without a winter
coat. All summer and fall she had been planning on a
new coat.

Well, no one ever looked at her, the way things were,
anyhow. And. there was a little man on Sixth Avenue who
could reline her old coat for practically nothing.

She didn’t want an ordinary little dog, she said, when
she w'ent into the pet shops. She didn’t know about buy-
ing from kennels. She wanted a nice little Pomeranian.
She had had a little Pomeranian who had died. She wiped
her eyes.

Oh, no, she wanted a much better Pom that that! A
very small dog! With a good pedigree. Champion stock.
Something she could show. Yes, a male was nice. Still, a
female was nice, too. And so affectionate!

She found one, finally. A three-months-old smoke-
colored Pomeranian bitch. They said she would turn orange
with her second coat. Pointed to her pedigree. Champions
on both sides. The only reason she was for sale was because
she was too small for breeding. As a pet she was a great
bargain.

Mrs. Taylor thought about the puppy for two days,
went in to see her half a dozen times.

“You’d better make up your mind,” the man in the
shop said. “A puppy like that will be grabbed up and
you’ll feel bad.”

She hesitated. And made up her mind after the shop
was closed. She worried all night. What if someone else—
She couldn’t stand it. She was at the shop at nine the
next morning.

Feeling that she was doing the wrong thing, but feel-
ing, too, that a whole web of circumstances forced her,
she went home with the puppy in a little splint basket.

She had a name all ready. Pretty Lady of Fairholme.
Fairholme was the kennels from which the puppy had
come, and the dealer had told her the pup could be regis-
tered that way. She’d call her Lady.

As soon as she got back to her apartment Mrs. Taylor
took Lady out of the basket. Lady sat on the floor, a soft,
frightened little bundle.

Then, suddenly, she began to show signs of life. She
jumped around. Immediately Mrs. Taylor found out that
Lady would be much more of a nuisance than Frisky ever
had been.

She hit everything. Curtains. Stockings. Slippers. She
paid no attention when you spoke to her. She was not
housebroken, even though the man in the dog shop had
said she was “trained to paper.” Her training consisted in
biting the paper to bits and then yipping in joy at the
completion of her task.

She pulled back on tiny, quivering legs when Mrs.
Taylor put a leash on her. She gobbled up her milk with
great enthusiasm.

Mrs. Taylor looked at her new pet. For that mussy bit
of gray fur she had spent the money for a new coat. Had

•13

destroyed the perfection of her immaculate apartment. Had
made it necessary to be dressed early and late. Had
deprived herself of going places where .dogs were not
allowed, unless her visits were to be short and full of
anxiety. Her friends alienated. Her home disheveled. Her
money spenti

She picked up the puppy, held it against her face. The
puppy squirmed, didn’t even give the little licks that Frisky,
in affectionate moments, had bestowi'd.

What had she done? She couldn’t take the puppy back.
There was nothing she could do, now.

She put on her hat and the old coat that would have
to do for another year. She put the absurd leash around
the tiny gray throat, took Lady down for her first regular
visit out of doors.

The elevator man, who hadn’t noticed the splint basket
when Mrs. Taylor came in, suddenly came to life. He had
been a wax figure devotei^ only to running an elevator
since Frisky had died.

“My! My!” he said. “Ain’t that sure enough a nice little
puppy! Little, ain’t he? Is it the same kind as the other
one? Will it grow just the same— coat and all?"

Mrs. Taylor answered all his questions eagerly.

Almost in front of the building was Mr. Smythe. What
a coincidence. He hadn’t gone to the office. A slight cold.
But he was better, now.

How he did exclaim over the little puppy! The two of
them, tears in their eyes, roared over the antics of Pepper,
Mr. Smythe’s Scottie, as he tried to get acquainted with
Lady. Yes, they were going to be great friends. Yes, a
little bitch. Mrs. Taylor had learned to use the word
“bitch" without straining over it. Yes, she expected to show
her as soon as she was old enough. Ought to make a
champion. Yes, she was going to be home in the evening.

14

Why yes, if Mr. Smythe wanted to come up and play
with the puppy—

. Only a blopk down the street she met the girl with
the wire-haired and the old lady who had the poodle. They
both went into ecstasies over the little dog. Only three
months oldl How well she walked for her age. "She” was
right, wasn’t it? How well she carried her taill Good bloodl
Yes, dogs aren’t like people. You can be sure of their
ancestry. Yes, if you’re the kind of person who loves a
dog there’s no use trying to get along without one. There’s
something about a person who is a dog lover, they all
agreed—

In the grocery store there was great admiration for the
new puppy. The vegetable man contributed, free, a hand-
ful of green beans and a carrot. "Carrots are good for
puppies and babies,” he said.

Mrs. Taylor’s eyes were moist. This was livingl Being
noticed— and talked tol Friendly with people. A part of
things.

What if she did have to wear her old coat anodier
year? It didn’t matter at all. Everything was all ri^t
again.

She hugged the squirming bit of gray fur closer. She
called the butcher’s attention to her new acquisition. He
leaned across the counter, patted the tiny gray head.

“A very cute little fellowl” he approved.

Mrs. Taylor gave her order. Half a pound of hamburger.
She smiled, ever so coquettishly, now, sure of her power.

“And don’t forget,” she said. "A very nice lamb drop
for the little dog.”

15

MORE LIKE SISTERS

Y OU TWO CERTAINLY look iiiore like
sisters than mother and daughter,”
people always told them. Each person
who said it acted as if the remark were original, and as
if both Mrs. Robbins and Lela would be delighted. Mrs.
Robbins did like it. She always preened prettily and
adjusted her collar or one of her blond curls. Under the
bright sunshine you noticed that Mrs. Robbin s youth was,
in a way, synthetic, but at all other times she was favored
by the comparison with her^ daughter.

At twenty-six Lela was too thin. Her mother was only
slender, and even if her slenderness was produced by diet
and baths and massage, still her figure was nicely rounded
—the kind that men liked— and her will-fitted clothes
seemed always a little tight. Lela, on the other hand, wore
her clothes too loose and she had angles. Mrs. Robbins was
three inches shorter than I^ela, and though Lela was of
moderate height, ^^rs. Robbins was so nicely proportioned
that she seemed just about right and her daughter too tall.

They were both blondes, but the natural tint and tex-
ture of Lela’s hair seemed drab by comparison with the
golden softness which artifice gave to Mrs. Robbins’s. They
both went to the best beauty parlors, but Lela’s hair was
a trifle on the stringy side and never quite kept its wave.
Mrs. Robbins’s hair was always perfectly coiffured— a mass
of rather foolish, becoming little curls and waves. Mrs.

17

Robbins’s skin was better than Lela’s, and her cheeks were
smooth and plump. Her blue-gray eyes were a trifle darker
than her daughter s and she used more mascara, so they
seemed larger, too.

Not that Lela wasn’t a nice-looking girl. It was just that
you always saw her with her mother, and Mrs. Robbins
pranced along seeming jollier than Lela, somehow, and
more fun.

They had lived abroad for years. Lela had gone to
school in Switzerland, and then they’d lived in France
and in Italy until Europe became difficult and Mrs. Rob-
bins decided they’d be happier at home. They went to
Florida now in the season and indefinitely North in sum-
mer, choosing various spots that seemed interesting to Mrs.
Robbins from hearsay. They took cruises that Mrs. Robbins
read or heard about. In spring and fall they were in New
York, with a small suite in some hotel that was smart but
not quite tops. And around them in New York were any
number of men, most of them Mrs. Robbins’s acquaint-
ances. Neither Mrs. Robbins nor Lela knew many women.

“You can’t trust women,” Mrs. Robbins would tell Lela.
•They seem to be your friends, but what do they ever
do for you? Nothing. If it hadn’t been for that Mrs. Bland-
ing from Detroit, I’d never have had a quarrel with Rudie
Simmons. He’d have forgot all about it by the next day.”

Sometimes Mrs. Robbins surprised herself by getting up
early and going shopping or to the dentist, but as a rule she
slept all morning and had breakfast in bed— toast and fruit
and coffee without sugar or cream. No matter what she’d
been doing the night before, she never had a headache
in fhe morning.

Lela got up earlier than her mottier and she break-
fasted in her room, too. On rainy days she fussed widi
things— mending something, pressing an evening dress.

18

sit down. You drive me crazy, fiddling around so^*
Mrs. Robbins would say when she woke up.

They usually got out for luncheon— anyplace from the
Colony or the St. Regis to one of the inexpensive tea*
rooms you find on side streets. Mrs. Robbins was always
discovering tearooms. “My dear,” she would say to people,
“you must go therel Real Southern cookingl Creole, you
know,” and then never go back herself.

They ate dinner late, and Mrs. Robbins was quite dis-
gruntled if they had to eat alone. She didn’t mind sign-
ing the check if she had guests at her hotel. It was, after
all, no more than she would do if she were hostess in her
own home. But she’d never pay a check when she was with
a man, outside of her own hotel. That was different and
not pretty.

The men Mrs. Robbins liked were substantial and in
the Street, likely as not, or connected with some mysterious
business which they never spoke about. Occasionally young
men interested in one of the a»ls crept into Mrs. Robbins’s
acquaintanceship, but she didn’t encourage them. Most of
the time Lela was satisfied with whoever happened to be
around.

“You’re such a funny child,” Mrs. Robbins would chide.
“I was married and you were a great big girl by the time
I was your age.”

To her friends Mrs. Robbins would say, “I don't know
what’s the matter with Lela. She’s too particular! Every-
one can’t marry Clark Gable, you know. Not that I don't
want her with me, for I love her with me. And she’s
young, of course. But I do think that she ought to pay some
attention to some man. Seriously, I mean.”

Tonight Mrs. Robbins and Lela were dining with Alfred
Mackintosh and Fete Bowles. Mackintosh was Mrs. Rob-
bins's friend, a hearty, red-faced man given to long and off-

19 *

color stories. The point was usually so dull and the story
so elongated that Lela minded only the length and not the
fact that the story was dirty. Pete Bowles was a slender,
fresh-faced young man who wrote advertising.

"I don’t know what you see in him, Lelal” Mrs. Robbins
said as they dressed. “He hardly opens his mouth. And he
has no future. You can tell that by looking at him. He’s
the sort of man who ought to marry his stenographer.
The clerk typel”

“I like him,” said Lela.

“1 know you do.” Mrs. Robbins sighed as if Lela’s choice
was in itself enough to damn the young man.

Bowles came first, Mackintosh five minutes later. There
were drinks in the small living room of the suite.

“Make mine very weak,” Mrs. Robbins begged Mackin-
tosh, who was mixing the drinks. “I don’t want to drink
much tonight.” She drank three Scotch-and-sodas. 'Then
they went to a little French restaurant Mackintosh knew
about.

Mrs. Robbins had a cocktail before dinner. “As long as
it has a whiskey base it won’t hurt me,” she said. Lela
caught her mother’s eye. “Lela’s trying to get me not to
drink,” Mrs. Robbins said, chuckling. “Isn’t that rich? 'The
daughter telling the mother what to do! No wonder people
won’t believe I am her mother!”

One of the men should have turned to Mrs. Robbins
at this point with a compliment about her youthful appear-
ance. Bowles was busy, however, talking with Lela, and
Mackintosh wasn’t quick at compliments.

The dinner was good. 'There was a nice white wine,
and Mrs. Robbins liked wine. When she discovered that
Lela was watching her she made a little grimace, but she
didn’t say anything more about Lela’s solicitude. After
dinner there were two Scotch-and-sodas for Mrs. Robbins,
and then they went to a newsreel theatre. Mrs. Robbins

•20

had seen all of the good shows in town, she said, and
there were no long movies she cared about. "Unless a movie
L really good,” she said, “I’d rather stay home and read.”
Mrs. Robbins never stayed home and read, but that, so
far as she was concerned, was beside the point.

After the newsreels Mrs. Robbins decided that she
wanted to dance. “The Stork Club’s always fun,” she said.
"A nice crowd there.”

At the Stork Club she had some champagne. They all
danced. Lela didn’t like the way Mackintosh held her
and she was glad she could dance with Bowles most of
the time. While they were dancing, he said what about
lunch on Thursday, and Lela said Thursday would be
fine. Bowles was very nice, she decided. Gentle and
pleasant. Fun, too.

At two o'clock Mrs. Robbins said, “Let’s get out of diis
rat-trapl”

Lela agreed enthusiastically. “If you go home now.
Mother,” she said, “you can get^a lot of sleep. You’ve been
complaining about not sleeping, you know.”

“There’s the girl!” Mrs. Robbins said. “Always wanting
to go home!”

At Joe’s Place on Third Avenue, Mrs. Robbins had
brandies. First with soda and then straight. Lela gave up
trying to keep her mother from drinking. By the time
they left Joe’s Place Mrs. Robbins had to cling to Mackin-
tosh's arm.

“You go home if you want to,” she said to Lela. “I want
to have fun. I get little enough fun with a daughter who’s
always crabbing. If you weren’t such— a ivallflowerr

“Mother!” said Lela, and looked at Bowles. He didn’t
meet her eyes.

Mackintosh had to help Mrs. Robbins into the cab when
diey left die next bar. She fell asleep on his shoulder.

• 21 *

When they got to the hotel he had to help her up to her
suite. He insisted then on coming in. Bowles and Lela
followed them.

Mrs. Robbins sat down on the sofa and announced
thickly that she wasn’t speaking to anyone.

"Shell be all right,” Lela said. “If you two want to go
now ...”

Bowles got up and said good night to Mrs. Robbins.
Lela went with him to the door.

"It was a nice evening,” he said.

“I’m glad you were with us,” Lela said.

Bowles opened die door and then hesitated. "About
Thursday— I just remembered. I’m afraid I can't make that
lunch. One of my bosses is going to be in town on business.”

Lela tried to smile.

"Ill telephone you,” he said, and dien he was gone.

Lela knew that he wouldn’t telephone. She’d never
hear from him again, or from the other men who would
appear briefly and seem to like her a little. Only her
mother’s acquaintances would go on and on.

When she turned back to the living room. Mackintosh
was sitting on the couch with his arm around Mrs. Robbins.

"How are you, sweetheart?” he asked. His voice was
unsteady.

"She’s got to go right to bed,” Lela said. “If youll just

go.”

"Ill help you.”

“I don’t need any help.”

"Stop ordering people aroundl” said Mrs. Robbins, open-
ing one eye. “Don’t listen to her, Mac. She can’t get mar-
ried, that’s her trouble.”

Mackintosh got up, started to lift Mrs. Robbins and
carry her into the bedroom.

"Please gol” said Lela. "Ill ask the hotel management
to come up if you won’t leavel”

22

"Oh, if that’s the way you feel about it,” he said, and
found his hat and left.

"Come on, dmling," Lela said gently. "Come on to bed.
We’re having lunch tomorrow with that nice Mr. Baker
and you want to look nice, you know.”

"To hell with Mr. Baker!”

■ “Now, Mother! You won’t feel tiiat way in die morning.
See there. How nice your bed looks. Til fix'somediing you
like to drink all ready for you when you get into it.
Come on— that’s right!”

She led her mother into the bedroom, undressed her,
and finally tucked her into bed after the promised drink.

"There you are!” she said. "Have a nice sleep. Good
night, darling.”

•23

SOPHIE JACKSON

B arbara, Mrs. Watkins’ youngest,
jogged Sophie’s elbow and the tea-
cup slipped out of Sophie’s hand and
shattered on the kitchen floor. Sophie felt the blood hot
in her head. She stood motionless, looking at the pieces.

"Mammal Mammal” Barbara’s voice was shrill. "Sophie
broke another teacup!”

Mrs. Watkins stood in the doorway. She seemed larger
than usual— and she was always large. Her face was con-
torted with anger.

"I’m sorry!” Sophie Jackson mumbled. She stood there,
a miserable little black figure. "It slipped when— when — "
"You’re sorry!” said Mrs. Watkins. “And it’s my teacup!
’The third piece out of my new set in three weeks! I won’t
have a piece of china left if this keeps on.”

"I’ll— I’ll pay for it,” Sophie volunteered.

"You’ll pay for this, and for the others. And tomorrow
you’ll get up half an hour earlier and get the living room
cleaned before Mr. Watkins comes down to breakfast! Even
he noticed how dirty the room looked.”

"Yes, ma’am.” Sophie was glad to have the conversa-
tion veer to house cleaning.

"And those potatoes last night! I told you baked in the
half shell, and they were mashed. I don’t like mashed
potatoes."

"I didn’t have time— after you sent me to the store.”

25

HDon’t answer backl 1 want meals the way 1 plan Uionl
And you didn’t put the right number of chops on the table."

"I took mine out first 1 thought you said —

Mrs. Watkins was in a frenzy now. She stood over the
little colored girl as if she were about to strike her. "You—
you — ” And then she smiled suddenly, as if she hadn't
been in a fury. "Get your things and gol" she ordered.
"You don’t appreciate a good home You’re as worthless
as all of the othersi 1 don’t know how we women put up
with you. Worthless. Lazy. The lot of you."

Sophie wanted to say, "I get up every morning at half-
past six. And I cook three meals a day. And clean and
wash dishes. And take care of the children and bake cookies
for them. And at ni^t I’m alone in my room because you
won’t let me go out. And this is all I get out of life."

But she just stood there, not saying anything, and Mrs.
Watkins went from veiled and smiling sarcasm back to
anger.

“I’ll have your money ready for you after breakfast in
the morning," were her last words, as she flounced out of
the kitchen.

Sophie finished the dishes. She put Barbara to bed.
She told the two other children— who were older and didn’t
mind her, ever— to go to bed. 'This night they made faces
at her. They knew she was going away in the morning.

She went to her room. It was off the kitchen and it was
furnished with a cot bed which sagged unbelievably in
the middle, a chair with a broken seat, a chest of drawers,
and an ironing board. The ironing board didn’t belong
there, but there was no room for it in the kitchen, so
Sophie found it more convenient just to make it part of
her bedroom furnishings. What difference did it make?
Mrs. Waddns didn’t want her to have company in her
room, anyhow.

•26

Sophie took two imitation-leadier suitcases from the
closet. Into the big one went her clothes and her mementos.
A plaster dog from Coney Island. A birthday card. The
handbag Mrs. Helms, her last mistress, had given her for
Christmas. Two pictures of herself taken at a place diat
delivers the pictures to you, finished, in four minutes. The
pictures didn’t do Sophie justice. She was a smooth-faced
girl, with sleek, golden-brown sldn and 'kind eyes. The
picture showed to advantage her stylish "wave” and her
teeth and her smile, but it left out the patience and the
hope and the submission that were a part of her.

Into the smaller suitcase— her beloved “overnight bag,”
which she was hoping to use, sometime, for a real week end
—she put the pink celluloid toilet set Chet Morgan had
given her two years ago when she was “going with” him.
She wondered what had become of Chet. She never did
hear from him after she changed her job, that time. She
hadn’t had a beau since, though she had smiled at a dozen
brown young men in the neighborhood. She added hor
new dress— brown with red trimmings. And her white
bungalow apron. She wished she could get a job where
she could wear real uniforms.

The overnight bag she left open, so she could pack her
nightgown and her soap and talcum powder in the morn-
ing, and went to sleep with the troubled feeling she always
had after she’d been fired, though by now even this
feeling was almost automatic. She’d been fired so many
times! It must be her fault, of course, though even now
she didn’t know what she could do about it.

She never had had an easy time. She’d been working
since she was eleven; she had helped her grandmother,
then. At thirteen she had her first job on her own. A
“mother’s helper.” She’d been fired because she’d left the
children alone half an hour one night, and their motiier

27

had come home unexpectedly. She was fired from the next
job for snipping a bit of ribbon from an evening dress.
The streamers on the bow had been so lopg, and she had
wanted just a little piece so badly. She never had pretty
things!

Then she’d been fired for answering back— and she did
try so hard not to answer back. And for being lazy.
And for breaking things. But she never had been fired
for not knowing how to cook. She wa:'. a born cook. She
knew about seasonings. How to get tlie tang of garlic
without the actual taste of it. And when tarragon vinegar
is better than cider. And when a pinch of saffron will
help fish. She gathered recipes and pasted them in a book
with “My Diary” in gold on the cover. But she had most
of the rules for cooking in her head.

At some of the places where she worked they appre-
ciated her cooking. And she stayed longer, then. Other
places— this one, for instance— the cooking didn’t really
matter a great deal. But even the best places didn’t last
too long.

Looking back, there wasn’t so much difference between
the best and the worst places. Lazy mistresses or worried
mistresses. Generous ones or those who, through nature or
necessity, kept her from getting enough to eat. You got
up early and set the table and cooked breakfast. Breakfast
got lighter every year, but there was always toast and
coffee and fruit— and eggs most of the time. Even this
meant dozens of steps and dishes.

And, after breakfast, the work started. Beds to be
made. "Don’t forget to turn the mattress. You didn’t turn
it yesterday.” Rooms to be cleaned. Silver to be polished.
And one eye on the clock, so lunch wouldn’t be late. And
maybe a couple of visits to the store, during the morning.

• 28 *

"Why didn’t you tell me you needed eggs? I believe you
like to run to the storel”

After lunch, more dishes and more cleaning. And
children coming home from school. Vegetables to prepare.
Dinner— and more dishes. And washing on Monday and
ironing on Tuesday. "Don’t get Mr. Watkins’ collars so
stiff. These are soft shirts, Sophiel” And one room cleaned
thoroughly each week. And staying in nights, so the chil*
dren wouldn’t be alone.

Nights off— every Thursday, if you were lucky, and every
second Sunday. Going to the movies alone, unless you made
friends with one of the girls working in the neighborhood.

The mistresses didn’t want to be mean. Sophie knew
that. But they were harassed too. Or were worried about
money. Or had difficult husbands. Or wanted to be out of
the house, away from the work, as much as they could be.
Sophie didn’t blame them. Instead, she dreamed of a job
where the mistress would be gentle and kind and the chil>
dren obedient and the hous^ new— and lots of time off—
and all the butter you wanted in the cooking.

She knew she wasn’t a first-class servant, one of those
.ciiperior girls who look stylish in a uniform and can de-
mand big wages. But someplace there must be a job —

At two in the afternoon she was at the employment
agency. That was a bad time to come, but she hadn’t been
able to get away from the Watkins house until after the
children had their lunch. She could have stayed on, if
she’d wanted to— Mrs. Watkins was in a softer mood by
then— but she’d made up her mind to go. Might as well
try something new!

So she sat on the hard bench in the employment agency
and tried to look pleasing. She wished her coat were better.
She smoothed her hair, hoped she looked nice.

Several women spoke to her, looked at the references—

• 29 *

tLe folds and the edges brown— wherein *10 Whom it May
Concern” was told that Sophie Jackson was entirely honest,
nice with children, and a satisfactory houseworker. And no
reason given why this treasure had been turned out on the
world.

She sat there . . . and no one wanted her. She could get
a room somewhere and come back in the morning. The
other girls began to leave, two at a time, usually. She
didn’t have any place to go now; mi^^t as well sit here.
Then the woman in charge of the office beckoned. Sophie
went into the inner office.

A young woman stood there. A mink coat was pulled
high around her throat, though the day was not cold. Her
eyes were large and mascaraed and her too-blond hair
formed a sleek cap close to her head, with a ridiculous
little hat perched on the side of it.

“Here is the girl I told you about,” said the woman in
charge of the office. “She is the best I have here today.
If you coixld get in early in Jthe morning, Miss Trevor — ”

Miss Trevor, Miss Joyce Trevor, couldn’t. “It is almost
impossible for me to make morning appointments,” she
stated. And didn’t say why.

“I think you’ll like this girl. She may not be your type
exactly, but I know she is clean and honest.”

“Can you cook?” asked Miss Trevor.

"Yes’m, I’m a good cook,” Sophie answered. She wanted
to say, “I’m a grand cook. I love cooking. I’m a nice girl.
You’d like me.”

“You can bake a souffle?”

“Yes’m. Cheese. Or chocolate. Or— or just egg.”

Miss Trevor looked at her now. Seemed puzzled, as if
she didn’t know what to ask next.

“I do washing,” Sophie volunteered. “Table linens. And
men’s shirts.”

“There are no men’s shirts.” Miss Trevor told her.

30 *

Soi^e couldn’t believe it. Was this one of die places
she had heard of— one in family? She had never even
aspired to a job ^like that! ‘You all by yourself?” she asked.

‘Yes,” said Miss Trevor.

No one spoke, then. The woman in charge suggested,
finally, “You could give her a trial. You needn’t pay us
unless she stayed two weeks.”

“All right.” Miss Trevor mentioned wages— more than
Sophie had ever had beforel “When can you start?”

“Right away, now. I got my things here.”

“Come on, then. You can come in the taxi with me.”

The apartment was beautiful! Sophie had never seen
anything like it. She kept making little wordless prayers
about not breaking anything. The living room had yellow
satin curtains and the walls were green. Miss Trevors bed-
room was pink and the guest room next to it was brown
and beige. The dining room was dark blue and silver. The
kitchen was tan and red. An^ Sophie’s room had a set of
matching furniture.

“I have an engagement for dinner,” said Miss Trevor,
after showing her around. “You just get your own. Tomor-
row you can clean thoroughly. But don’t make a noise in
the morning. I’ll be out late. See that I’m not disturbed
until I ring for you.”

‘Yes’m.” Sophie swallowed hard.

That was the beginning. At first Sophie had to pinch
herself to be sure it was real. She wasn’t sure even dien.

The next morning she woke with a start— and at first
thought that she had overslept. Eight o’clock! She tiptoed
around, cleaned the living room, and then got to work on
the small kitchen, handling things slowly and gingerly so
as not to make a noise.

At ten she was alert for a sound from Miss Trevor’s

31

room, but it was twelve before the bell rang. Sophie
rushed to answer it.

Miss Trevor looked tired and pale without make-up, but
she was sweet! All she wanted was a pot of coffee and
some orange juice. Sophie prepared the tray quickly. 'This
looks very nice,” Miss Trevor approved. Then: “A friend
will be here for dinner tonight— Mr. Langford. What can
we give him?”

“Did you want a souffle?”

"Mercy, no! Why?”

“You asked if I could make them.”

"I’d heard they were hard to make.”

They decided on steak, a green vegetable, French fried
onions, and a salad and cheese.

“You do the ordering,” Miss Trevor directed. “You know
how to order?”

“Of course,” Sophie nodded. “And what do you want for

lunchr

“I won’t be home to lunch,” Miss Trevor said. "I won’t
be home until six. Dinner is ’at seven-thirty. Know how to
mix a cocktail?”

“No, ma’am.” Sophie knew there’d be a catch in it!
She wanted to say, “I won’t know so many things you’ll
ask me to do. But I can learn. And 111 try so hard— if
youll just put up with me.” She didn’t say anything at all.

Miss Trevor dre.ssed and went away.

And Sophie had a holiday. At least it seemed like one,
with nobody to yell at her. She straightened Miss Trevor’s
room, polishing the silver things on her dresser and the
perfume bottles until everything sparkled.

She did the marketing, feeling very important and
choosing the nicest things; then she set the table, got the
vegetables ready, and still had hours of time! She turned
on the radio, feeling vaguely wicked because she had so
little to do.

32

Miss Trevor came home. Said hello very cheerfully.
Looked at the dining-room table, changed tibe position of
the knives just .a little, told Sophie a few diings about
serving. Sophie knew how to serve, though most of the
people she had worked for just wanted everything put on
the table.

Mr. Langford was older than Sophie had thought he’d
be. He was rather a heavy man, and might have been
sixty. But he had a good appetite. That was somethingl
He and Miss Trevor talked like people in a book or in
the movies— sort of company manners, with Miss Trevor
smiling at him and telling him what she’d done all day
and making little jokes. As she brought in each dish Sophie
watched them both out of the tail of her eye and prayed
things were all right.

After dinner she was washing the dishes when Miss
Trevor came in. “That was a very nice dinner,” she began.
“But next time bring Mr. Langford a big cup of coffee.”

“Oh, I’m so sorryl You didn’t say coffee, and I thought—”

“It’s all right. You did fine,” Miss Trevor smiled. And
she didn’t accuse her of talking back!

“What shall I do now, ma’am?” asked Sophie.

“Whatever you wish. Go out if you like.”

“Every night?”

“\Vhy not? What else is there to do?”

It was wonderful! And it got even more wonderful as
the days passed. Miss Trevor found out that Sophie liked
company. “Why, when you do have six it’s just about the
same as where I was before, when they were alone,” Sophie
assured her.

"My other maids objected to company.”

“That’s funny. There ain’t nothing here to do!” And
really, there wasn’t much. Breakfast ^f you could call it
breakfast) at twelve. Sometimes a bite of lunch for Miss

•33

Trevor at tliree. Or maybe a guest for codctails at five
and no lunch at aU. Diimers two or three times a wedc.
Company not oftener than once or twice. Laundry— Miss
Trevor’s lovely silk things diat were fun to wash out in
bright suds and dry between towels before you {nressed
them so carefully.

At the end of the week Miss Trevor bought uniforms
for Sophie. Blue and white for moming^v Crisp black nylon,
with the thinnest of collars and cuffs and aprons, for after-
noons.

*Youre going to keep me on?” Sophie hadn’t dated
ask before.

"Of course.”

Sophie looked her gratitude and prayed that nothing
would go wrong.

The next day she broke a crystal ash trayl

She was still trembling when Miss Trevor got home.
She’d tell her, of course. And offer to pay. But what if
Miss Trevor got angry? “Don’t let her scold me too muchl”
Sophie prayed. Meanwhile she had polished the silver,
waxed the floors, and washed the windows.

“Miss Trevor,” she began as soon as she had taken
her mistress’ wraps.

“What’s the matter?”

“I— I dropped a— one of the big glass ash trays. I don’t
know how it happened. It fell out of my hand.”

“So what?” asked Miss Trevor.

“It broke. I mean I broke it. You can take it out of my
wages. I couldn’t help it.”

“Of course you couldn’t help it. Forget it,” said Miss
Trevor. And picked up a post card. “Look at thatl” she
sniffed. “Why do people try to be funny on post cards?”

Miss Trevor’s guests were all nice to Sophie. Before this.

34 *

guests hadn't paid any attention to her, beyond asking her
for things or eying her suspiciously.

Now Sophie, knew all the guests.

"Mr. Langford is bringing a Mr. Roberts toni^t You
might bake that fish widi the sauce. Mr. Roberts is an
important lawyer, and he'll appreciate a good home din-
ner.”

At the table that night, when Sophie passed second
helpings. Miss Trevor remarked, "This dish is a specialty
of Sophie’s. Her own recipe."

Mr. Roberts smiled at her as if she were a real person.
"And very good it is, too, Sophiel”

Later diey called into the kitchen, "That was a fine
dinner, Sophie. You’re some cookl”

That went on all the time. Mr. Langford brought her
a big bottle of perfume. A Mr. Simmons gave her a scarf.
Jack Shahon, whom she fiiou^t she wouldn’t like at all at
first, always stopped in the kitchen to say hello, and every
couple of weeks he gave her a dollar for the movies.

Mr. Langford gave her fi^e dollars toward a new dressi
A woman who was a handkerchief buyer brou^t her two
dozen handkerchiefs, all colors.

But that was nothing compared witii what Miss Trevor
did. Miss Trevor gave Sophie a beautiful coat, almost like
new. And three hats. And three street dresses. And an
evening dress. And all her stockings, as soon as they had
little runs in them. And lingerie. Everything! Sophie didn’t
have to spend anything at all except on shoes; she couldn’t
get into Miss Trevor’s.

Miss Trevor had a nice life, Sophie thou^t. A wonder-
ful life, really. Daytimes she went shopping or visited one
of her women friends. She had only a few, but they were
almost as nice as Miss Trevor. At night Mr. Langford or
one of her other friends took her out. They went to all

35

the new plays. And to night clubs. And to the movies, too.
They danced until late at ni^t.

Miss Trevor told Sophie all about things in the mom>
ing as she sipped her orange juice. “It was such funi We
went to a new place— the Sunrise Club, they call it. A man
Mr. Langford knows did the decorations. All the colors of
sunrise, and a lot of mirrors make it look as if the sun was
really rising. And we had little melted-cheese things with
our drinks. You might make some sometime.”

Or: “It was a Cuban place. Very nice. With Cuban
music. I danced with Mr. Langford. And with Mr. Ross—
you remember the tall blond man who was here Tuesday
a week ago?”

“I remember,” Sophie nodded. "We had roast goose.”

Once in a while Miss Trevor spent an evening at home.
Sophie would fix a tray for her and she’d have it in her
room. Sliced cold chicken. Salad. A fluffy dessert. And Miss
Trevor would talk. That’s when she’d show she was fond
of Sophie. It frightened Sophie a little.

"You’re one of the few Peal friends I’ve got in the
world,” Miss Trevor told her once. “I know how much
you do for me, working so hard every day.”

"It’s easy, Miss Trevor, really it is,” Sophie said.

“I wouldn’t like it,” said Miss Trevor, “alone all the
time. I hate being alone!”

Sophie wondered why Miss Trevor looked so sad.
Whenever she was alone evenings she looked sad. She was
all right during the day.

Mr. Langford came nearly every evening. Once in a
while, when he didn’t come, some other man would take
Miss Trevor out; but Mr. Langford always knew, and they’d
joke about it later.

Once a week or so Mr. Langford would stay all night
in the little guest room. Miss Trevor explained that he lived
on Long Island and those were the nights they’d stayed

36

out so late he’d missed the last train. Sophie would take
his breakfast in when he rang for it. He liked heartier
things— scrambled eggs and bacon and toast. He didn’t even
wake Miss Trevor in the morning. He’d leave while she
was still asleep, after thanking Sophie for the breakfast
and giving her a dollar.

“What a head!” he’d say, usually. “I drank too much
again.”

Everyone drank too much, Sophie decided. She hated
to think that Miss Trevor had a fault, but Miss Trevor had
too many morning-after headaches too. Sophie tried to hint
to her that maybe, with less to drink, she’d feel better.
It was easy to say that to Miss Trevor without being
impudent.

“You’re right,” Miss Trevor admitted. “But how can a
person go on, night after night, without drinking? How can
you face life^

"You could come home earlier.”

“And miss all the fun. Thgt would be a help! . . . Sophie,
you’re a nice girl. I’d hate to think of going on, day after
day, without you.”

“I’ll be here as long as you want me,” Sophie promised.

And then Miss Trevor fell in love! And not with Mr.
Langford! With a young man, tall and thin and dark, named
Dunlap Craig. Sophie, who compared everyone to motion-
picture stars, was ready when Miss Trevor asked her what
she thought of him. “He looks a little like Basil Rathbone,”
she asserted.

“But he’s a villain,” Miss Trevor laughed.

Sophie nodded. “I know.”

"You don’t like Mr. Craig.”

“He’s all right.”

It was plain that Miss Trevor liked him a lot. When
she was with him she was lifted up. Cay. It was, thought

37

Sophie, as if someone had turned on a whole row of Christ-
mas-tree lights inside her. Yet sometimes she seemed sort
of sad, underneath. It fri^^tened Sophie. She didn’t want
anything to change. . . .

One night Mr. Craig came to get Miss Trevor. She had
on a new white chiffon dress, and her blond hair was like
a golden cap. But she had lavender shadows under her
eyes. Mr. Craig had on a dinner coat and looked star-
tlingly black and white— and very wicked, Sophie thou^t.

They’d hardly been gone an homr when the telephone
rang. It was Mr. Langford. “May I speak to Miss Trevor,
Sophie?” he asked. Sophie was just about to say, “She isn’t
at home,” when Mr. Langford went on, “If her head aches
badly and she’s asleep, don’t wake her.”

\i^y. Miss Trevor hadn’t had a headachel She felt fine
because she was going out with Mr. Craig. “I— I — Sophie
gulped. “I— I guess she’s asleep. Her— her head ached.
Yes, sir.”

The next morning when ^ophie put Miss Trevor’s tray
in front of her she said, “Mr. Langford called last ni^t.”

“He did?” Miss Trevor put a hand on Sophie’s shoulder.

“Yes’m. He asked for you.”

"What did you say?” Miss Trevor’s nails nipped into
Sophie’s shoulder.

“He said not to call you if your head ached. And I
said yes, you were sleeping.”

Miss Trevor laughed and laughed. It wasn’t as funny
as that, Sophie knew. “You’re wonderful, Sophiel” she said.

Sophie didn’t feel wonderful as the days passed. Miss
Trevor was making too many excuses not to see Mr. Lang-
ford. Sophie didn’t see why she didn’t stop seeing him
altogether. But sometimes she’d see him and be sweet.
And then say she wasn’t at home when he called— if she
was seeing Mr. Craig later. She didn’t want to make Mr.
Langford angry. And yet, when she was widi Mr. Craig,

•38

Sophie felt, Miss Trevor didn’t care for anyone else, didn’t
care what happened.

Sophie wondered if they were going to get married.
Miss Trevor was too pretty to be single, anyhow. And Mr.
Langford was too old for her. Mr. Craig, now, was just
the right age, and handsome— even if he did look like a
villain.

^e’s sure good-looking,” she told Miss Trevor.

But looks weren’t enough. Miss Trevor and Mr. Craig
quarreled. Sophie never knew why. Mr. Craig didn’t call
for several days. And Miss Trevor saw Mr. Langford in-
stead. Every night. And she sort of wilted, like a flower
that has been cut for one day too long.

Then Mr. Craig telephoned, and diat evening he was
back againi Miss Trevor was so gayl All the lights inside
her had been turned on.

Sophie was happy because Miss Trevor was happy.
Everything was like a holiday. And Mr. Craig gave her
five dollars and told her to buy some new stockings, but
she felt he wouldn’t care if she sent it to her aunt in
Birmingham instead.

Then Miss Trevor and Mr. Craig had another quarrel,
and Mr. Langford came back. But that night Mr. Lang-
ford and Miss Trevor quarreled. Afterward Miss Trevor
told Sophie:

"If anyone but Mr. Craig calls, I’m not home.” But no
one called at all. Three days— and no one who counted
called. Just some stray acquaintances. Sometimes Miss Tre-
vor would go out. And rush right back. But there were
never any calls she cared about.

One ni^t Miss Trevor called Sophie to her room. She
was sitting at her dressing table wearing a pale pink neg-
ligee over her gown, and it frothed on the floor in a little
pink wave. Her hair wasn’t as sleek as usual and the

•39

shadows under her eyes were deeper. But Sophie thought
she looked more beautiful than she had ever seen her.

Miss Trevor held a little box in her hand. “This is for
you,” she said. “It s to— to remember me by.”

“Ill always remember you,” Sophie declared.

“I know— but this is to help. Now promise me some-
thing. You sometimes go rather late to see that girl who
lives on the other side of town, don’t you? Well, you go
there tonight. And let her keep this t<\r you.”

"Yes,” said Sophie.

“You’re a good girl, Sophie. You’ve helped me.”

“Thank you, Miss Trevor.”

Sophie looked in the box as soon as she was in her
room. Rings and pins and a bracelet. “I guess it’s a lot of
junk she didn’t want to keep,” thought Sophie. It seemed
sort of silly to take it over to Mabel’s tonight. But she had
promised Miss Trevor. So she put on her hat and coat
and took the box with her. It wasn’t her fault that Mabel
wasn’t at home. It never occurred to her to leave the box
anywhere else, so she brougllit it back with her and put
it on top of her chest of drawers.

She had got into the habit of sleeping late, and when
she woke up the sunlight was already in her bedroom. She
wondered how Miss Trevor was feeling. Well, she hadn’t
been drinking, so she wouldn’t have a headache, anyhow.
She wished Mr. Craig would stay away and Mr. Langford
would come back and things would be the way they’d
been in the beginning.

Sophie got up finally, made her bed, put her room to
rights. Then she saw the box. How funny Miss Trevor had
been about thatl She’d take it over to Mabel’s in the evening.

She cleaned the living room, making as little noise as
possible. Her broom handle hit against a chair and she
held her breath. . . . 'Thank goodness, there was no sound
from Miss Trevor’s room.

40

No, there was no sound from Miss Trevors room.
Twelve o’clock, and still no sound. And one o’clock. Sophie
began to worry. For Miss Trevor had gone to bed so early.
It wasn’t as if she’d been out dancing until early morning.

At two o’clock she couldn’t stand it. She had to go in!
What if Miss Trevor was ill— needed her?

She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She
opened the door, stepped into the bedroom.

She looked at Miss Trevor, there on the bed. White
and beautiful. Still wearing the pink negligee with the
frothy hem. Sophie ran shrieking from the apartment and
pressed her finger on the elevator bell until the elevator
boy was with her. “Miss Trevor—” she began. And couldn’t
go on. The boy went back into the apartment widi her.

It was sleeping tablets— a whole box of them— self -admin-
istered, the police said. Half a dozen policemen poured into
the apartment, pawed over Miss Trevor’s lovely things.
Asked questions. In Sophie’^ room one of them found the
little box. “Who does this belong to?”

"It’s mine,” Sophie told him. “Miss Trevor gave it to
me.”

He called another officer. “Look what this gal was try-
ing to get away withl Didn’t even have sense enough to
get it out of sight. Said the Trevor dame gave it to her.”

"Maybe she did.**

“Yeah? The first thing those maids who hang around
women like Trevor learn is how to steal.”

There was nothing more for Sophie to do in the apart-
ment. She packed her things into the two suitcases. Her
new dresses. Her new hats. Her new perfume. She went
up to the employment agency, sat down on the hard bench
to wait until somebody wanted her.

It seemed silly to go on. Miss Trevor had had so much

•41

more than Sophie could ever have— and she hadn’t gone
on.

The derk in charge called Sophie into the front office.
A woman stood there. Fat, middle-aged, efficient, rather
cross-looking.

“Have you ever worked for a family with three chil-
dren, done all the cooking and washing, taken care of
everything?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not afraid of hard work?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You’re honest? Don’t drink or keep bad company?”

“No, ma’am.”

Sophie knew all the questions. She knew what would
happen. The big, ugly house. The three children, quarrel-
ing with one another, impudent to their parents and to
her, most of all. 'The big wash on Monday; and all the
ironing to do Tuesday morning. Boiled dinners. Putting
up preserves. Seeing the children got to bed. Staying home
evenings. And getting up early in the morning.

There was nothing else. There had never been anything
else but a miracle. And that was over. Miss Trevor was
dead.

"... to appreciate a good home.”

Her new mistress was through talking. Sophie knew
she had to make an answer. And the answer always had to
be the same. Without comment. Without interpretation.
Without impudence.

“Yes, ma’am.”

42 *

THE ACTRESS

T he telephone bang. As if an audience
were watching, Zala Cassell put her
newspaper on the table, and sat very
straight. As she reached for the telephone, the sleeve of
her negligee fell away from her only sli^tly flabby arm.
The negligee was lace trimmed, a trifle soiled.

“This is Madame Cassell!” Her voice was rich and deep.
“It’s Mr. Chamberlain, Madame,” said the operator.
“You may put him on, dear,” said Madame. Madame
insisted that callers be announced, and accepted each of
her calls hopefully— though most of them proved disap-
pointing.

“Madame Cassell? I didn’t awaken you?”

“Horace! How good to hear you! I’ve been awake for
hours! I used to say I didn’t trust the actress who woke
up before noon. But time, my dear Horace—”

“You’re wonderful! I hope you aren’t busy tonight,
Madame. Could you have dinner with me at the Stork
Club?”

“Just a minute, dear boy—” Madame Cassell sat per-
fectly still. Then, “I had to look in my engagement book.
I had a dull date. I’d much rather be with you, dear
Horace!”

“At eight then, Madame?”

A very nice dinner date with the most attractive man
she knew! Horace Chamberlain was in his thirties— and

43 *

rich. He wasn’t in love with her. Why, if she’d had a son
he might be older than Horace! But all she had was Horace.
He was overcome by her background, by the aura she
created. As long as she kept him interested, he didn’t
think about other women. Horace was easily influenced—
and she was influencing him to be attentive to her. She
needed attention. If Horace met the right girl, he’d make
a perfect husband. Madame didn’t like to think of that,
and when he introduced her to the girls he knew, she
was always able to let him see just how shallow and con-
niving they were.

She knew a lot of men. Old actors, who liked to spend
endless hours talking about the theater, preferably while
drinking her liquor. Occasionally she had to appear with
one of diem at charity affairs, and then it was part of her
art to be interested and gracious and appealing. There
were still a few rich old men around, who had been stage-
door Johnnys but who now wanted to be seen with very
young girls, to simulate yoi^h. There were writers who
liked to draw her out in order to use her in stories. That
meant occasional good meals and resultant publicity. But
the old ones had to be inexact about her to disguise dieir
own age, and the young ones made her a museum piece.
Social climbers— whom she would have refused years ago-
felt she added distinction to their parties, and occasionally
she allowed them to fawn on her as she talked of when
she’d played with Richard Mansfield and William Faver-
sham and Philip Henley. Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Fiske, and
the others were all gone .... Horace Chamberlain treated
her like a real person. She needed him.

Zala Cassell lived in an apartment hotel in the West
Fifties. Not as chic as East of Fifth— but smarter than if it
had been nearer Broadway. To a connoisseur, au courant
with the newest in decor, the apartment might have

44

seemed hideous, cluttered, and dingy. Madame considered
it a distinguished background.

"I have my own things,” she said with dignity. Fic>
tures framed in deep oak or narrow black molding hung
on the walls, and silver-framed ones stood around the
room. One of Madame as she had appeared in ”Lady
Windermere’s Fan” was in a frame of green velvet with
insets of jade. It was from an admirer she’d long forgotten.

The telephone rang again, and Madame went through
her routine. It was the president of a women’s club, and
after the necessary hesitation Madame promised to speak
at a luncheon, without charge, if a member called for
her in a private car.

”I loathe taxicabs,” said Madame.

The next call was from Lew Marstan. Lew was one of
the oldest theatrical producers in New York; Madame had
known him since he was an office boy in the Harris office.

“How’s my girl?” His voice was too hearty. "How’s the
greatest star on Broadway?”

“I’m sure she’s fine, and to am I,” said Madame.

“You’re a great one!” He laughed. “I’ve got something
very interesting for you.”

"Going to star me in ‘Macbeth’?” He’d promised that,
twenty years before.

“I wish to heaven I could!” he said.

“I know!” Her voice was soft. A beautiful, entirely
impossible dream.

“Youll like this maybe just as well. Philip Henley—”

“Philip Henley has been dead for ten years!” There was
a thickening in her throat and her eyes filled.

“As if I didn’t know! This is his son, Madame. As fine-
looking a young fellow as you ever saw.”

In that moment, Philip Henley seemed the only man
she had ever loved. He had been younger than she— which

45 *

she now felt was the reason they had never married.

They’d played together in half a dozen plays, and all
but one had disappeared. But ‘Hamlet" had not disap-
peared. Philip Henley had been second only to John Barry-
more, she felt. She had played the Queen Mother. Philip
Henley had had beauty and fire and charm.

They had been ma^y in love. The way, it seemed to
her, only theater people can love. With a mixture of reality
and illusion. Philip had been unpredin^ble, emotional, a
bit mad. And a great actor! That was the most important
thing! They had loved and had been happy. And they
had quarreled, and now the quarrels seemed almost the
best. All through their love had been their love of the
theater— their emotions had been mixed with their acting.
She could see herself as she had been then— slim and grace-
ful, her face smooth, her lips warm, her eyes enigmatic.
Sure of herself— of the world— of Philip He^ey. Then the
quarrels had grown frequent and serious. They’d both been
jealous, and pigs for publiciW. She remembered those last
emotional scenes. Too bad mere’d been no audiences, no
recordings. The other men she had loved hadn’t been so
wonderful. Philip Henley— dead these ten years. . . .

"Are you there?” Marstan asked.

“Of course!” said Madame. “Philip Henley’s son—”

“I’ve put him under contract. I’ve got a play called
Tension,’ by young Simmons, who wrote ‘Over the Fence.* ”

“ ‘Over the Fence’ ran two weeks,” said Madame. “The
second week they had to give out orchids to keep the
house from echoing.”

“He’s learned a lot. There’s a fat part for Henley.”

“Gan he act?” asked Madame.

“You’re always telling me that actors are puppets, and
directors pull the strings.”

“But the actor must be pliant, have sensitivity, train-
ing, be able to take direction, to mimic emotion, to feel—”

46

"The boy’s got all that"

"Without training, I suppose."

"I want you to coach him. That’s die idea, Madame."

"A raw, untrained boyl"

"Look at the job you did with Alice Jensen."

"The girl has talent. Though it’s true 1 worked—”

"I give you creditl Wait till you see diis boyl The
resemblance is imcanny. He’s bound to inherit &e old
man’s talent. And you don’t object to the money?"

"Money, unfortunately, is never objectionable."

"Well, what about luncheon?"

“Today? Impossible, Lewi”

"Then tea— at the Plaza at four. I’ll pick you up. There’s
one thing more. He’s got a girl. Pretty as a picture."

“Oh, Lordl”

“What’s the matter with his having a girl? I’m giving
her the part opposite him— practically a bit part. I’ll call
for you." Lew Marstan hung up before Madame could
object.

Philip Henley’s son! She half listened to the others who
called, answering automatically in her silken, husky voic^
which would have sounded affected in anyone else. She
tried to finish the newspapers. She mulled over the
theatrical columns— deciding whether the new plays would
succeed, if the choice of cast were wise. Time passed
slowly. Why should she be so perturbed over a chance
of coaching? She’d had dozens of pupils these last years,
when chances to teach had become more frequent than
acting offers. As long as it was the theater! It was impor-
tant to pass the torch. Her pupils had done well, when
they’d had any feeling for acting. She tau^t them how to
express emotions, but the love of the theater had to be
there. There was Alice Jensen. A little tramp. Mean. Cruel.
Selfish. An opportunist. But she had a de^ understand-
ing of acting. She knew how to bring emotions out of

•47

herself and throw them over the footlights. The girl would
go to the top. And never be grateful to Madamel Why
should she be? She’d earned the money to pay for the
lessons. She’d known Madame could give her what she
needed. A smooth, suave alley cat who had the ability
to get what she wanted. Madame hadn’t been grateful to
those who had helped her. Youth doesn’t figure that way.
Alice Jensen, fighting her way up, would have excitement,
love, quarrels. Madame could visualize i-'er odd, blue-green,
slanting eyes, her mouse-colored hair— auburn this season
—her lithe, expressive body, her oddly provocative mouth.
Alice would make people feel deeply. Maybe helping a
girl like Alice Jensen was doing enough for the theater
she loved. And now there was Philip Henley’s soni

She dressed carefully. She smoothed on her most flat-
tering make-up, but couldn’t hide the wrinkled skin under
her eyes. Perhaps it was just as well it wasn’t the first
Philip Henley she was going to seel She put on her plainest
black gown and her smartest ^hat.

She was confident, almost patronizing, when Marstan
called for her.

“You look wonderful, Madamel” said Marstan. "I
planned this whole thing just to get a look at you.”

She laughed politely. In the theater, she respected
Marstan. Out of the theater she couldn’t stand him.

“You’ll like young Henley,” he said. “The girls will go
wild. The boy’s inherited what it takes.”

“From his father or mother?”

“You know his mother couldn’t act.”

“She brought up the boy.”

“What of it? You’ll see! As for his girl, she’s a nice
little thing. Had experience in summer stock.”

Madame saw young Henley the minute she came into
the lobby. He was taller than his father but curiously like

48

Philip Henley before the years and emotions had marked
him. But the older actors face had been leaner, his cheek-
bones more pronounced, his nose sharper. The girl was soft
and sweet-looking, the type that would have to start diet-
ing in a year or two.

They sat at a round table and ordered tea. The boy
had nice manners.

“I know you’re honored because Madame Cassell has
agreed to coach you,” Marstan said.

“I can’t coach anyone unless he has a real feeling for
the theater,” said Madame. “Real emotion!”

Young Henley laughed.

“Most of the emotion I’ve seen around the theater is
pretty phony,” he said. “I’m a quick study, but I don’t
know anything about acting. Most of the actors I know
are pretty dumb, but still, I want to learn the ropes. If
Madame will give me some pointers—”

Madame closed her eyes and hoped the shudders
didn’t show. Philip’s son!

“Madame knows there is something more than saying
the words. I want her to teach you the inside,” Marstan
said.

“If there is an inside. I’d like to learn it. But not a lot
of elocution and stuff. I like actors to seem natural.”

“An actor should appear to be natural, to be the person
he is portraying, but emotional scenes require expression,
even when they’re underplayed,” said Madame.

The girl— her name was Lucile Carter— giggled.

“I think it’s silly to take the stage too seriously,” she
said. "I think it’s fun to be an actress, but, personally, I
think a lot of all that stuff is nonsense. I think being a wife
is more important. I believe there’s a good woman behind
every man who succeeds!”

“You have everything all set, I see,” said Madame.

49 *

"Now, let’s plan about the coaching,” said Marstan
hastily. "If Madame will arrange with Philip—”

Back in her apartment, Madame decided that die
experience had been a million times worse than she’d
dreamed it could be. Philip Henley’s son being drowned
in convention! Buried alive with kindness! Without an emo-
tion in his undoubtedly perfectly normal heart! Just
another young man— without feeling, w ithout temperament,
without love for the theater! Her Philip Henley, when
he was young, had been impudent, impolite, erratic, ruth-
less, unthinking. But he’d had feeling, emotion, depth. The
theater had been his love, as it was hers.

Lucile Carter would make some man a fine wife. But
not yoimg Henley! A good actor must have emotion, not a
pleasant acceptance of life. Her mind ran around and
around.

She had a good time at the Stork Club with Horace
Chamberlain. When she could get young Henley out of
her mind! Wasn’t he just a f oung actor— to coach? In the
Cub Room, everyone broke rules against table hopping
and came over to her table.

“You are always the most glamorous woman in any
place,” said Horace. He was the perfect escort. She didn’t
know what she’d do without him! He’d make a fine hus-
band for some lucky girl, but without him she’d have to
depend on sporadic escorts. Dear Horace!

Young Henley appeared the next day, promptly at two.
Polite. Not too interested. He paused in front of a tinted
and framed portrait of his father.

"Mother has that picture,” he said. "He must have been
a great fellow!” Madame detected smug condescension.

Madame felt a tightening of her throat, an overwhelm-
ing despair. "Philip Henley was a credit to the American
theater,” she said.

50

Philip read his lines. He might have been a dothing-
store dummy with phonographic attachment. Marstan had
sent Madame the play, and she’d read it that morning.
Not a bad play, if acted by eager and a bit eccentric
young people. A play of modern and rebellious youth. Not
for this pleasant mannequin!

Not that he didn’t try. He repeated, parrotlike, the
things she suggested.

“I’m rather modern— I believe in underplaying,” he said.

“The emotion has got to be underneath, suppressed,
if you want to underplay.”

“Sure! But this isn’t a very emotional speech!”

“How right you are!” Madame hid her own emotion.

He walked around, looked out the window. “Imagine
living in a hotel room all these years!” he said.

“It isn’t exactly a room. It’s an apartment. And I haven’t
always lived here. I had a house in the East Sixties. And
I’ve lived abroad.” She was angry at herself because she
felt it necessary to explain to this stupid child.

“Oh, it’s very— interesting, here. Lucile likes the
country. Not really the country, that is—”

“The suburbs?” Madame’s voice was smooth.

“Well, yes. Near the water, with a big living room,
and a place to eat on the lawn.”

“How delightful!” said Madame.

The rehearsals went on. Philip became letter perfect
—with wooden exactness. Getting the words and none of
the feeling. He might be adequate in summer stock, but
he wasn’t good. Madame could teach him to throw his
voice, but she couldn’t put sympathy and meaning into
him. He didn’t underplay; he just didn’t play at all. The
theater, as theater, escaped him. Philip Henley’s son!

Well, she could teach young Philip Henley to act,
parrotlike. Maybe he— a boy with real physical beauty,
whose father had been a great and beloved actor— could

51

get away with it. But it was a horrible thing to do— to the
theater, to the memory of Philip Henley.

Madame was completely miserable. More miserable
than she’d been when she found she was growing old. Or
when she knew she and Philip Henley no longer loved
each other. Philip Henley’s son, given into her keeping
to turn into an actor, and there was nothing she could
do! There had to be something!

She stood in front of the picture . of Philip Henley.
Philip, handsome and unpredictable and passionate— It was
almost as if she were praying to him.

“Help me, Philip!” she said. “Help your son, and the
tlieater! The theater we both love! Philip, my dear one!”

Marstan telephoned to find out how things were going.
She tried to tell him.

“Nonsense!” he said. “You’re always pessimistic at this
stage. The kid says he’s getting along fine.”

No help there!

If she were thirty years younger, she would know what
to do. Wasn’t it Philip Henley who had taught her to use
physical attraction? If she were young, she could awaken
young Philip, give him an interest in living, make the world
come alive for him. But even in this emergency, Madame
Cassell didn’t have the power to regain her lost youth.
And Philip’s silly girl could do nothing for him. A nice
enough girl— for a man who needed a girl like that. But
young Philip needed sparks, clashes. He was Philip Hen-
ley’s son! And his face showed a sleeping talent.

Alice Jensen came to see her. She’d had a successful
season, and she’d bought some good clothes. You had to
look twice to remember she was a tramp. Her face was
without make-up, except for her mouth, which was very
red. Madame had to look into her slanting blue-green
eyes to know the kind of girl she really was. Alice wanted

• 52 *

something. She wasn’t the girl to come calling otherwise.

“I've had two offers— neither one worth a dime. Both
trying to cash in on last season. Do you know of a perfect
part? You know everything that goes onl”

Madame recognized the tiny sop of flattery. “I wish I
did know of one!” she said. And meant it. The girl had
.sultry sex and a passion for the theater.

"I want to show what I can do!” Alice stretched out
luxuriously on the hideous velours sofa, which became a
voluptuous background. “None of those sweet-girl-graduate
parts; I want the kind of part you’d want if you were
nineteen.”

Madame knew Alice was twenty-four. “I'll keep you in
mind,” she promised.

After the girl had left, she stayed in Madame’s mind.
The sensuous mouth, the high cheekbones, the determined
chin. Yes, Philip Henley would have liked her! Maybe—
maybe this was the answer!

She couldn’t do it! Simply couldn’t! Not even for the
theater. Not even for the meifiory of Philip Henley. Why
should she? What did she have to gain?

She had nothing to gain! And she didn’t like to lose.
And here .she was planning to give up the things she liked
best— admiration, flattery, going places. But she had an
idea that she’d had a sort of sign— and she had to do
something, didn’t .she? Thi.s was the only thing she could
think of.

Horace Chamberlain telephoned to ask her to have
dinner with him. She held her breath. She had never
bothered about other people’s affairs before. But this was
for the theater, which she loved most of all.

She threw out the bait, threw it away in her best
fashion. "I’d love to come,” she said. “May I bring some-
one with me? A dear little girl who is in New York for
the first time. She wants to be an actress, but I’m afraid

•53

she isn’t the type at all. She’s practically alone here—”

“I’ll be delighted to have her,” he said. “It’s your eve-
ning, you know.”

She telephoned Lucile Carter. It seemed a shame to
do such a good deed for such a silly child. But it was the
only way!

“I’m having dinner with a man I think you’d enjoy,”
she said. “It would help me out a lot if you’d come along.
He’s a wonderful man, so charming you don’t have to
remember he has a lot of money. Just the three of us!”

“You’re not asking Philip?”

If the girl really loved Philip she might not come! But
Madame felt she was a grasping little thing who wanted
to do the best she could for herself.

“No, you see he asked just me, but I’m so much too
old for him. I hoped you—”

“I’ll be glad to come,” said Lucile Carter, “if it will help
you out, Madame.”

“It certainly will help n^p!” Madame said.

The evening was a great success. Such a success that
Madame wanted to stop it. Instead, she was the charming
older woman interested in these dear young people. She
drew out Lucile Carter— let her say the diings that were
so unbelievably right— to Horace Chamberlain. She was the
girl who wanted a home in the suburbs, a car and babies,
and the country club. These were the things Madame knew
that Horace Chamberlain wanted, though he’d never said
so in the rarefied atmosphere created by Madame.

Before long, the two were deep in discovery. And
Madame sat there, smiling, and feeling, dramatically, like
Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.

She tried to feel sad as she went to sleep. Instead, she
was pleasantly excited. Things were happening! She’d feel
sad later, when she was alone

•54

She telephoned Lew Marstan the next morning.

"If you’ll help, young Henley may be all li^t.”

"He can act. 1 told you!” Marstan chuckled.

"I’m not sure. There’s something wrong. That part op-
posite him. Lucile Carter can’t bring him out.”

"It’s not a large part.”

"Large enough to spoil the play.”

“But he’s crazy about the girl.”

“If you want the show to close in two weeks . . .”

“What can I do?”

“You can find a good ingenue who will help the play.”

“If you really think so. There’s Esther Shelby.”

“Heavens, no! Plump as a pigeon.”

“Dorothy James.”

“Sad-looking! The world on her shoulders.”

“Who do you want, anyhow?”

“It’s up to you. Lew. You’re casting. But I do want the
play to succeed. All the work— Henley’s first play—”

“You’re right! But you want the impossible. An ingenue
with brains! Like Alice Jensen!”

“Lew, she’d be perfect!”

“We’d never get her. She’d want a lot of money— But
if you’ll talk to her—”

“If you’d like me to. Lew. Then with Berkley for the
older man, and Janice Holling, you’d have a star cast.”

Madame planned another date for Lucile and Horace,
and smiled to herself. They’d go on from there! Now, if . . .
She waited nearly a week. She couldn’t tell by Philip’s bland
face if anything had happened to him. But if she were to
push matters— She telephoned Alice Jensen and asked heir
to tea. She said to Philip, after his coaching lesson, “Will
you drop in at five? A young actress is coming in. I never
know what to talk about to those young girls.”

And there they were! Another threesome! But this

• 55 *

wasn’t like the Stork Club dinner. Philip was politely indif-
ferent. Alice Jensen’s slanting blue-green eyes held hidden
questions. Madame served tea, spoke airy nothings. Then:

"I wanted you two to know each other. Philip is going
into rehearsal next week in the new Marstan play. Ten-
sion.’ It occurred to Lew and me that the two of you
together—”

”My friend. Miss Carter, has the part,” said Philip.

“She hasn’t much experience and doesn’t seem— inter-
ested,” said Madame.

“Is it an important part?” asked Alice.

“Not many sides,” said Madame. “But Philip will come
in for a lot of publicity, and the part is interesting, could
be developed—”

“Can you act?” asked Alice of young Philip.

Philip bridled. “Of course!” he said. “Madame has been
coaching—”

“He can learn to act,” said Madame. “If he has inher-
ited-”

“You don’t have to inherit acting,” said Philip. "You just
-act.”

Alice’s sensuous mouth curled. Madame hadn’t realized
how firm was her determined chin.

“I’m sure!” she purred. “It’s just— saying the lines, isn’t
it? The way Madame teaches you. I’d like to read the
script, Madame. If I think it suitable -for me . . .”

Madame nodded. She could see the girl muscling in,
just as Madame had expected. Alice would cleverly up-
stage the unsuspecting Philip, and take over his publicity
and the honors that belonged to him.

“I’m sure you’ll like the role,” said Madame.

Philip was angry— and it was the first time Madame
had ever seen him show any emotion. Wonderful! He
became unsure of himself, almost pouted, in a sort of

56

juvenile way. He wanted Lucile’s flattery, Madame knew.
And she smiled to herself.

Alice’s voice grew colorless, the way it always got when
she was excited. Underplaying. A great girl, Alice Jensenl

As she left, she brushed her Ups lightly against Madame’s
withered but perfectly rouged cheek. ‘Thanks, loads! I’U
be seeing you,” she said. There was a mixture of malice
and pleasure in the slanting eyes.

Alley cat! thought Madame, and smiled one of her most
gracious smiles.

Now she could make an actor out of young Henley.
She and Alice Jensen! He’d feel Lucile had jilted him, and
that would help. Alice was fire and emotion. She didn’t
want a house in the suburbs. She wanted the theater.
Fighting and passion. She’d rouse that nice young man
out of his lethargy. She’d fan his pale liking for the theater
into flame.

Rehearsals started. Lucile Carter was given a bit part
and didn’t mind at all. And then, after a week’s rehearsal,
she quit, and the part was cut out. Madame continued to
praise Lucile to Horace. Horace didn’t need the praise;
he was already ripe for matrimony.

Young Henley was no longer being coached. He was
too busy at rehearsals. He was worried and unsure of him-
self. He was beginning to think.

Madame went to some of the rehearsals, but, despite
an outward show of respect, she wasn’t important there.
The director and the actors were an integrated whole, with
the author called in when a new line was needed. Madame
loved it— the bare stage, the few spotlights, the cast in
street clothes. Jimmie Fielding was a fine director. He
hammered at the boy harder than she had dared to. Alice
Jensen was fluid, smooth— she made you think of a pretty
young green snake.

• 57 *

Philip grew more uncertain. His calm acceptance of
himself as an actor s son, able to get what he wanted— a
part in a Broadway show, a pretty girl, the promise of
acclaim— these had disappeared. His amiable girl had been
succeeded by a mysterious creature who ignored him or
stepped on his toes, and a director who bit into his self-
satisfaction. Madame smiled at his bewilderment, as Alice
slid into star billing. Why, the boy would be a feeder of
lines unless he got hold of himselfl

It happened while Madame was present. Philip lost his
temper. Alice had been flirting with Stephen Berkley.
Fielding had been hammering at Philip.

“Why do you keep after meP” Philip screamed. “You
never say a word to Miss JensenI And she goes through
her lines as— as if she doesn’t care what she is saying! And
yet she’s always saying her speeches just a little too soon
or fumbling with something when the lines belong to me!
When I was going over my part with Miss Carter it seemed
smooth— “

"You and Miss Carter were a couple of wooden figures,”
said Fielding, “acting out a party charade. This is a play,
Henley. It should seem to the audience— if we ever have
an audience— like a segment of life.”

“But Miss Jensen—”

Fielding s^ed at Alice Jensen. And Alice came over
to Philip, put her hand carelessly on his shoulder, gave
him a soft and melting look out of those blue-green eyes.

“I— I’m sorry!” she said. “Perhaps if we work together—”

“Miss Jensen knows what she’s doing,” said Fielding.

She certainly does, thought Madame.

Madame wasn’t surprised when Philip came to see her
while she was brewing her cup of tea that afternoon.

"You’re just in time,” she said. “Tea is only colored
water witibout company.”

“I need more than tea,” he said. "You saw what’s hap-

• 58 *

pening! The play’s a mess! Fielding keeps hammering—
and Miss Jensen— I say my lines—”

"You say your linesi Jensen doesn’t say hers; she lives
theml She is the girl in the play, and she won’t really
respect you unless you’re the young man.”

“In love with her, you mean? Risking my life—”

“Yes, that’s what the play means! If you can get it
the way Jensen gets it—”

“I can do what she can do! Just to show her! To prove—”

“That’s more like it! Put Jensen in her place by proving
to her that you know what you’re doing! ’Then she won't
be able to upstage you and steal your thunder. Show her,
show yourself, and Fielding, and the audience, what you
are trying to do!”

There she was! Giving the talk she had planned weeks
before. She felt the lump in her throat. She had to be
careful. If she let her emotions show, young Henley would
retreat, thinking her a tiresome, sentimental old girl.

Madame knew this was ^er great chance— her big role.

“An actor,” said Madame, “must interpret. He’s not a
creator. People come to see believable stories, not strutting
people. He must immerse himself in the person he portrays.
Your own emotion must dominate, but you must lose your
emotional identity. You don’t ‘feel’ the part as much as
understand the part. Then you blow it up bigger than life.
Not overacting— projecting. Good actors are real people,
not a bundle of tricks and vocal inflections.”

Philip asked questions, and she tried to concentrate her
own experiences into the things she told him. When he
left, she threw herself on the worn sofa and cried for the
first time in years. She knew her eyes would be swollen
and her throat rough. If she could be sure she’d done the
right thing! She felt that nothing she had ever done in

59 *

the theater was as important. And knew she was being
mawkish and silly about it.

“Just an old woman talking to a young boyl” she told
herself, daubing at her swollen eyes. “An interfering old
woman, who took his girl friend away and introduced him
to a scheming tramp who will t('ar his heart out. And 1
lost the best escort in the world!”

She went to a delicatessen store, and treated herself
to a few slices of turkey and a mi\cd "alad. Dined alone
at home. There were two good mysteries on her small
television screen.

Madame went to the opening with Jesse Cnithers, a
pompous little man who had money in the show. She’d
had her hair retouched, and she wore her best dinner
gown, recut from a ten-\’ear-old modt'l. People nodded
deferentially or stared in awe. That was worth something!

The houselights darkened and the curtain rose, and
Madame felt the familiar tigl^tening of her throat. When I
stop feeling that, she told herself. I’ll be dead— or deserve
to be. In a way, she felt that this was as much her open-
ing as if she were playing in it.

Minor characters first. Adeejuate. Then Alice Jensen and
Philip Henley came on. Madame sat very' straight and
practically stopped breathing.

They were good, good! Young people, caught in a web
not of their making, and fighting to find themselves, to
find one another. They were the young people— not just a
sly, scheming, ambitious girl and a bewildered young man.
Madame didn’t need the applause to know she was right.
She didn’t know if it was the direction, or Alice Jensen, or
her own help, or the older Philip Henley projecting him-
self from the beyond, or the young Philip finding himself.

In the intervals she talked with a dozen people— actors

60

without jobs, producers who might need her for coaching,
climbers who still wanted her recognition.

Lew Marstan gave a party after the play for the cast
and those critics he was able to round up, plus the backers
and some of his friends, at his penthouse on East Seventy-
third Street. There was the usual excitement and flattery.
Madame came in for her share of attention. Old stars were
constantly being rediscovered these days.

“Your presence makes a party,” said Marstan. And then,
“All right, don’t you think? A solid hit?”

“It went very well,” said Madame.

“I told yon! I know a good ])lay! And Ilenk'y and Jen-
sen got their teeth into it. They’ve fallen for each other,
and that won’t hurt the play or the publicity.”

“You’re so right!” said Madame, and looked at Philip
and Alice. Alice was wearing a deceptively simple gown
and looking at young Henley with adoration in those odd
eyes. Smart girl! She looked at Madame, and Mad|ime
thought she winked, but she wasn’t sure— her eyes weren’t
too good.

“I’m leaving,” she told Jesse Cruthers. “Don’t take me
home— the party is still young! The others will be here
until the morning reviews come out. I need my beauty
sleep.”

“Madame never needs that,” said Cruthers gallantly.

Philip Ilenlex' came up to her as .she reached the door.
“You’re going? Madame, thank you for everything!” His
s’oicc was impersonal. Either he’d forgotten the things she’d
tried to show him, or he hadn’t realized their significance.
Or maybe he was really underplaying— a good actorl

“You must drop in to see me,” she said, as she had
said to everyone.

“I shall be glad tol” His voice was pleasantly insincere
—a young man being polite to an old actress who had been

61

coaching him. And he wasn’t winking. She was close
enou^ to be sure.

At home, she undressed slowly. She telephoned Art Ford,
her favorite after-midnight disc jockey. He got the theatrical
reviews before they reached the streets.

“I was at the opening of ‘Tension.’ I’m a bit curious as
to how it went over. I wonder, my dear Mr. Ford—”

‘The play went over very well,” h-** told her. “Here is
what John Chapman said—” He read extracts. “And Atkin-
son was just as laudatory in the Times. ‘A new star came
to Broadway last night—’ Two young actors of ability and
charm in an exciting new play—’ ‘A rare moment in the
theater—’ ”

Madame got into bed. She was very tired, as if she’d
come back from a long journey.

She’d done it! Not just for the memory of Philip Henley.
Oh, she’d loved him. But she had loved other men. Some
were in the pictures around the room. The memories were
a bit faded, elided. They’d bten colorful and exciting. She
wouldn’t have changed even the heartbreak at the end
of each affair— so much greater than the pain of losing
Horace Chamberlain, though he’d been all she had to lose.
Maybe she’d done that for the theater— a sort of final sac-
rifice.

She knew there were no parts for her in the theater
or in Hollywood. Unless there was a miracle, and the
theater was full of miracles. Just an occasional coaching
job. Lonely evenings. Still, in the theater you never could
teU.

They were all gone— the men she had loved— but the
theater was still here. And she was still here. A star! A
star-maker! She had a curious idea that, there in the dark-
ened room, Philip Henley’s tinted face smiled down on
her.

62

GIRLS IN BLACK

T hey tried to have lunch together as
often as they could, which meant once
every two weeks, usually. There were
so many things: conferences; dates with clients; business
details piling up— which meant a sandwich sent in, instead
of a leisurely lunch hour. Career women— and all four of
them liked to think of themselves as career women, instead
of professional women or girls who “go to business”— have
so many things to do besides planning luncheon engage-
ments.

They were eating at the«Algonquin. Dorothy had tele-
phoned Eleanor, and she’d said the Algonquin. They all
liked the Algonquin. They liked any place that was smart
and had good food, and where you saw the right people.
All four of them liked seeing— and being seen by— the right
peojile. And the right people, to them, were that layer of
sophisticated, brittle, surface-smooth New York which knew
what plays to see, what books to read, what clothes to
wear, what cliches to say and where to eat.

Dorothy McLaughlin arrived first, which was unusual,
because she was nearly always late, always scurrying from
one place to another, always talking to people, showing
an interest .she never felt, planning engagements she had
no intention of keeping. Things crowded in on her so. She
was early, now, because she had cut a before-luncheon
engagement.

• 63 *

What did it matter? The date was with the Acme
Bed people, and she was giving them free publicity. She'd
have her secretary telephone and get the dull details about
their new folding mattress. She wondered if her readers
really would be interested in a mattress that went into a
closet when it wasn’t in use. So few New Yorkers ever had
house guests. Visitors, in New York, went to hotels. It
wasn’t like a small town.

Dorothy remembered the guests in’ her home, back in
Iowa. Cousins and aunts, weeks at a time. In New York,
if a visitor stayed half an hour too long you felt aggrieved.

Unless the visitor was Ken Foster. No matter how long
Ken stayed . . . That was the trouble— wanting him to stay
long, encouraging him to stay, w'hen nothing could come
of it, ever.

Dorothy took a seat near the door to the dining room.
The headwaiter saw’ her, came over to her. “Waiting for
Miss Beckwith?” he asked, and smiled.

“Yes. She’s late.”

“She telephoned for a table.”

That w'as nice of Eleanor. All the girls w’cre nice. Girls
w’ere so much nicer than men, in New York, as a rule.
All the girls she knew' helped one another and weren’t
catty at all. They were fun. much more fun to be with
than most men— than <dl men except K(*n.

A girl came in, nodded, went through to the dining
room. Dorothy took out her notebook. Made a note of
her corsage: white daisies. So simple and so fresh in this
not-at-all-simple place. Tomorrow', in her column, she
would write, “Yesterday at lunchc'on I saw a new idea in
corsages far more charming and much less expensive than
the usual orchid. A hunch of white daisies. Doesn’t that
bring a homc-town-in-spring feeling into a New York
winter?”

Dorothy took her column seriously. It was called

64

"Girls-Eye View” and ran in the Morning Star. It was a
sort of shopping column, and by reading it you could learn
where to buy everything from needles to white elephants—
if you wanted white elephants. The writing was easy, but
getting material was not.

It wasn’t what she had dreamed of when she came
to New York. She had wanted to write plays, then. But
the plays didn’t write themselves, and being a writer with
a by-line on a New York paper wasn’t bad. She went to
all the openings— commercial and theatrical; to cocktail
parties for movie stars; to fashion showings. She knew press
agents and head waiters. She knew everyone on that thin
line where commerce and art meet.

She ought to be happy. She knew that. She would be
happy if it weren’t for Ken Foster. And yet, if it weren’t
for Ken, she knew she’d be far more miserable. Lonely,
too. Lonely in New York, with millions of people to turn to.

Ken was her world. Everything. More important than
her work, really. And Ken cared for her— in his way. But
Ken was married! And his^ife wouldn’t divorce him.

Ken always said he thought his wife would give him a
divorce. But Dorothy didn’t believe him any more. She’d
believed him the first three years— years of worry, of
nervous tension. Why should his wife give him a divorce?
Ken had position, money, charm. His wife had nothing at
all! She’d married him when he was young. Home-town
stuff. And she hadn’t gone ahead as he had.

At least, that’s what Ken said. They lived in West-
chester, and Ken was always hurrying home. To bridge
parties and little dinners, and, in summer, to affairs at the
country club. Those times, Dorothy could just shift for
herself. And when his wife came to town to the theater,
and when he had business engagements.

Other times, those rare other times, Ken was most
attentive. But he loathed the parties Dorothy had to

65

attend. He didn’t like any of her friends. And he was get-
ting possessive. She had to do something about it. What
could she do? She loved Ken, and she didn’t love anyone
else.

She didn’t want to be Ken’s girl, really. She wasn’t the
girl for a back-street romance. And yet, here she was
—and here was Kent

Well, she’d have to decide. Seein^^ Ken, which meant
when Ken wanted to see her; being Ken’s girl. Or not
seeing Ken at all. Why, Ken was all she had! Nothing
would come of it, ever. Yet . . .

Susanne Blake and Rita Hammersley came in together.
They were older than Dorothy McLaughlin, but just as
sleek, just as finished-looking.

“Early birdl” exclaimed Susanne. “What special worm
did you expect to catch at the Algonquin?”

“I didn’t expect, but sometimes blessings come when
you least look for them.”

“Such as?”

“There you have me! I’m still looking.”

“I’ve been looking for surprises for years,” said Rita.
“All I ever get each year is a new birthday.”

They decided not to wait for Eleanor. She could join
them at the table. Together, they went into the dining
room to the special place the headwaiter had been hold-
ing for them. Very straight. Very slender— that was diet!
Very smart— that was career women in New York. They
nodded to people they knew. An elderly playwright still
living on the fame of a ten-year-old success. An actress
who had been waiting that long for a successful play.

Susanne and Dorothy and Rita were in black, as most
of the successful women dining at the Algonquin were in
black.

Rita was the eldest — and the smartest. And she
should have looked smart, for Rita designed clothes for a

66

wholesale firm. Then the firm sold the clothes she created
to the most exclusive little shops— to only one shop in a
town. Her clothes weren’t spectacular, but they were good.
The sort of clothes that made women say, "See, you
needn’t go to Paris when you can get frocks like this in
New York.”

Rita had on a gown like that now. It was high in the
neck, and the sleeves were long. A series of little tucks
radiated from the waist. At her neck was a tiny corsage
of colored feathers, and these feathers were echoed in
her hat.

She knew that other women were noticing her gown
and talking about it, an^ well they might. It was the one
thing she had— her knowledge of clothes.

That was the trouble— it was die only thing she had!
Susanne Blake was married. Her husband didn’t amount
to a great deal, but at least she had him— had someone.
Dorothy was having some sort of dreary affair with a mar-
ried man— Rita hadn’t heard the details but little things
had come to her. Eleanor alWays had some man interested
in her. But she, Rita, didn’t have anyone at alll

She wondered, now, why she was so unpopular, so alone.

She hadn’t been popular when she was a child, back
in Fairmont. But it hadn’t seemed to matter so much,
then. For, then, she’d dreamed of New York. She hadn’t
liked the small town, ever. All her dreams had been of
cities, of excitement, of the theater. Well, she had the city
and the theater. In a way, she had the excitement, too.

She’d been successful. She knew that. Why, she’d
started without any training at all. She and Millie, her
sister, hadn’t thought of doing anything, actually. Millie
never had, so Millie was still back in Fairmont. Millie
must be lonely there— all alone in the old house, now that
Mama and Papa were dead.

Millie had sort of hinted, in letters, that she’d like to

67

come to New York to live. But Millie was two years older
than Rita, and plainer. Rita alone might get something,
some adventure. With Millie, she’d be marked. Two
women living together. Two aging women. No one would
bother with them at all.

Not that anyone bothered with Rita now. She knew
that, but she didn’t know why. It had always been that
way. Her success hadn’t been on a ladder of men, that
was certain.

She remembered when she’d come to New York, young
and silly and so green. She’d got a job in a department
store as a clerk— in the notions. Some of the girls who had
started out with her were still there. She hadn't liked
notions but she had hung on, living in a hall bedroom
and eating in grimy restaurants. She couldn’t write home
for money; didn’t want to give up and go back. So she
had kept on.

The few boys she’d met in the store paid no attention
to her. She had no opportunity of meeting people outside.
She’d tried to flirt a little, buV even that had brought no
results.

After notions had come blouses, and then dresses. That’s
when she began to get interested in merchandising.
Pretty soon she was making suggestions, and reading,
nights, about costumes and color. She began designing
gowns and got her chance. In a small shop, first; then in
a larger one.

Now, she was one of the biggest designers in the busi-
ness. She didn’t have to worry about that. She knew what
people ought to wear— and how they ought to wear it.
She could look at a woman and know whether her gown
was an importation, a good copy, or something run up by
a small-town dressmaker.

Each year she knew all the special points of each
designer of dresses. And she knew that the other designers

•68

knew her designs. She knew also that her fall and spring
showings were definitely becoming more important each
season.

But that was all she had— her designs. Evenings, she
could go to a theater or a movie with some other woman,
or turn on the radio or television or read a book at home,
alone. She had a charming apartment, very modem, big
enough for two. Rita knew that if she met a man she
liked she’d marry him and support him, the way Susanne
Blake did. Everyone knew Doug Blake didn’t pay nearly
half of their expenses. But she didn’t meet any men she
liked— who liked her.

Here, having lunch with the girls, this was fun. Other
lunches— business lunches, mostly— would be fun. But every-
one else seemed to have things to do evenings. A definite
social life. She felt that the fault was undoubtedly within
herself, but she hadn't the least idea what to do about it.

She’d tried everything she knew— churches, lectures,
charity work. She was too busy, daytimes, to make any
great effort at night. If tWngs came of themselves— but
nothing came. There were hours at night when she wanted
to scream, she was so lonely. And yet she kept on
hoping . . .

The three “girls” ordered their luncheons. Dorothy
ordered a clear soup and stuffed pancakes. Rita ordered
corned beef and cabbage.

“I haven’t had it for ages,” she said. “It sounds so back-
to-the-farm.”

“I’d like to order that but I don’t dare,” said Susanne
Blake. “I’m worried about my figure.” So she ordered a
chefs salad.

Susanne was worried about her figure, but she was wor-
ried more about other things. Curiously enough, Susanne
was not worried about her husband. She knew diat, as
far as the world’s opinion was concerned, Doug was a

69

dud. But she didn’t care. She knew he drank too much,
and she did care about that--only because so much alcohol
was bad for Doug. She was sorry he couldn’t keep a job
only because it would be better for him, psychologically,
if he had a job. As a matter of fact, she liked him
the way he was. Casual. Careless. 'Thoughtless. Fun.

Susanne thought Doug was in love with her. As (ar
as she knew, he hadn’t looked sericusly at anyone else
since their marriage— and they’d been married ten years.'

Susanne knew that the ideal husband supported his
wife, didn’t get drunk a couple of times a week, didn’t
sleep late every morning, and wasn’t indifferent to man-
ners and courtesies. But she observed a peculiar thing:
Successful women in business were not married to suc-
‘cessful meni

There were a few exceptions, of course. But in most
of those, exceptions, the wife had become successful
through her husband. The average career woman, smart in
her sleek black near-uniform, was either single or married
to a man who was almost a 'parasite

Why was it? Susanne didn’t know. Was it because
successful men are afraid of brainy women? Or because
women who have made good have to have a man who is
dependent, weaker?

Doug was weak. She knew that. But Doug was charm-
ing. Such good company! It was fun to have someone like
him to work for. To know, no matter how hard your day
was, that Doug would be waiting at home for you, all
ready with plans for the evening: a movie, or the theater;
or someone he’d met who’d asked them to drop in for a
drink; or maybe just a new book to read.

Susanne had worked hard all her life. She had supported
her parents while they were alive. Doug was her reward.
He was worth working for.

No, it wasn’t about Doug that she was worrying— out-

70

side of that always-present nibble of fear that she was
getting older, too old for Doug, who was younger dum
she; that Doug would fall in love with someone or
get bored and go away. Susanne was worrying about her
job.

Susanne wrote advertising, and she wrote it well. Until
the past year she'd been the best woman copy writer at
Bell, Black and Bullerd. Then Bernice Henshaw had
joined the organization.

Susanne wasn’t afraid of working with a woman, but
Miss Henshaw didn’t play fair. She was one of the few
women Susanne knew who didn’t play fair. She’d take
Susanne’s ideas and twist them around and offer them as
her own. In conferences she’d say the things that were
based on Susanne’s suggestions.

Other things, too, lower than that. Intercepting Susanne’s
copy before she was supposed to see it, so that her com-
ments would seem even more brilliant; for if you haven’t
seen the new copy for a campaign and then say how it
shouldnt be— why, that is doubly damning when the copy
comes to light with all the faults you’ve just said would
ruin a campaign.

Miss Henshaw did other things, too. She flattered Black,
who was the real head of the agency, the way no one
else had ever dared flatter him. And worst of all, she
hinted ever so delicately that Susanne Blake was getting
old, lacked the modem touch. Nothing could be so ter-
rible as that, Susanne knew. She wasn’t dated! She was
keenly alive to modem merchandising methods, to trends,
to— to everything!

She didn’t know what to do. She could go to Bullerd,
who was her friend, and tell him what Miss Henshaw was
trying to do. She felt that Bullerd would understand. But

71

she hated to go to him. She'd never had to do anything
like that in business. She hated to start now.

But how could she keep on letting Miss Henshaw get
away with tilings? What if the things were serious that
Miss Henshaw was doing to her? What if her job was in
jeopardy? Her job and the money for her household— and
for Dougl She wished she knew what to do.

The three girls, smooth in their s.nart black frocks,
talked lightly of events of the day as if they were as much
at peace inside, as sleek and as unruffled, as their exteriors
seemed to indicate.

Eleanor Beckwith arrived at last.

Eleanor, like the other three, was slim and smart in
black. But Eleanor had been a beauty. You could tell that,
in spite of the faint lavender shadows under her eyes, the
lines around her mouth. She looked tired and none too
young, now.

But Eleanor was not alone, and the girl with her really
was young. Youth personified. J^ovely, gay, glowing youth.
She was slim, too, but it wasn't the slimness that comes
from careful diet. And you knew that the golden glints
in her hair were natural; that the color of her cheeks
was real.

"I’m sorry I’m late,’’ Eleanor Beckwith said “Just as I
was getting ready to go. Miss Sloane came in.”

She introduced them all around, as the waiter found
an extra chair— the table was set for four. Miss Sloane's
full name was Beth Sloane, and she was from Austin,
Texas, and she’d been in New York only three months and
had a job already in an interior decoration shop. Her aunt
was a friend of Eleanor’s— they’d met on a cruise— and the
aunt had written that Beth was to look Eleanor up.

“My family pictures New York as a sort of dark forest
with gunmen lurking behind every tree. They have

•72

terrific ideas of what is going to happen to their darling,”
she said.

”It s a wonder they’d let you come at all,” said Dorothy.
She remembered what a hard time she’d had getting away
from home.

“What could they do? I finished college. And I cer-
tainly didn’t want to stay in Texas all my life. So here
1 am!”

“And the gunmen?” asked Susanne.

"Not a sign of one! As a matter of fact, not nearly
enough exciting things happen. Everyone treats me as if
I were a baby. How do they know I’m from out of town,
I wonder.”

The four women in black looked at her. 'They looked
at her as she ordered her luncheon. A heavy soup, meat
and potatoes, a glass of milk.

"Don’t you know?” asked Rita.

"No, I don’t!”

'Well, your clothes, for one thing.”

"This suit? Why, it wa/ the smartest thing in Texas!
And it was made by a New York manufacturer.”

"I know it was,” said Rita. And all four went on look-
ing at Beth Sloane.

“There isn’t a thing the matter with your suit. It’s a
\’crv nice suit.”

‘Then how?”

"She means because it’s tweed,” said Eleanor. “Tweeds
are good, you know, but somehow, that simple felt hat
.uul the tweed suit and the cotton blouse — ”

"And I thouglit I looked sooooo well!” Beth pretended
to shiidder.

"You do! You look darling! Fresh .ind fit and unaffected,
but not Now York. Most successful New York women wear
black. You wanted to know.”

"Oh,” said Beth. And then, “Oh, I see.”

•73

“Don’t change a thingl” said Rita. “You can get away
with a lot, the way you are. Keep your eyes open and
be 'girl from the country’ for a while.”

“I think you’re terribly smart to have got a job so soon,”
said Dorothy McLaughlin. “I know girls who have been
here for months who can’t find a thing.”

Beth smiled tolerantly— youthful intolerance trying to
be tactful. “They didn’t go about it in the right way, I
bet. I heard all ^at about girls not getting jobs and losing
jobs and the boss getting fresh. I got a job the second
week I was in town. Not as good as I expect to get, but
good enough— I can live on it. And my boss is too busy
matching off-shades of purple to even think of trying to
start anything. I think the boss who tries to start things
is something out of fiction, if you ask me.”

Eleanor looked at her sharply. The girl couldn’t know,
of course. And yet— but then, men all over town were
trying to start things with girls. Her own boss, now.

Eleanor didn’t know what to do about it. The job was
a good one, and if she didrft have that job she didn’t
know a single job she could get. And yet her boss did
annoy her all the time, in little ways. She didn’t like him.
It wasn’t a temptation. It wasn’t that!

There was an alternative. She could go home, back to
Council Bluffs. For Eleanor was a man’s woman. One of
the rare businesswomen that men bother with. Back home,
the beau’s name was George Ilemple. He was on the dull
side and he had a shoe store, inherited from his father
but a going business. She could go back, marry George,
have a house out in the new section. Have babies, even.
And belong to the country club.

It would be admitting defeat, in a way. You came to
New York to make good. But even so, it would be a
pleasant kind of defeat. She was fond of George. She
didn’t love him, but she wasn’t in love with anyone else.

•74

She had been in love a long time ago. There was no one
now— no one but Mr. Hargess, pawing over her whenever
he got the chance. Back home she’d be a sort of glamour
girl, because she’d been to the city. But here she was in
the city, and she wanted the city

Eleanor missed something someone was saying. It was
Susanne who asked Beth the next question: “You’re glad
you came to the city, then?”

“Of course! I’d rather be dead than stay in Texas. In
any other place. But you all know— you came from out of
town, all of you, I bet.”

They all had.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Being yo— being in New York.”
She couldn’t say “being young” to these women who were
getting old. “The theaters and restaurants. I haven’t seen
many of the shows yet, though a man I met in business
took me to see The Beautiful Sea.’ I think it’s wonderful.”

She went on and on. All four of the women envied her
and only half listened to hgr. So young, and so unafraidl

Tlirec of the women took black coffee in lieu of dessert.
Eleanor took stewed fruit. Beth Sloane, who hadn’t met
tlie ogre of approaching fat and middle age, took
cliocolatc souffle.

They looked around tlie room, spoke to a new arrival,
talked about nothing at all. The theater. Dorothy had seen
all the new plays on first nights. Eleanor and Susanne had
seen a few of the better things. Rita hadn’t seen anything
at all.

“I love the theater,” said Beth Sloane. “That’s one of
the reasons I wanted to come to New York. I wanted to
go on the stage, at first, but everyone told me what a
hard time I'd have, and this other job came along.”

Clothes. Rita was information, here, though Dorothy

had been to all the openings and showings, too. Eleanor
and Susanne also knew about clothes.

“It’s simply wonderful to hear you,” Beth said. “To think
that you can see a sleeve or a neckline and know who
originated it. I guess a dress is just a dress to me, but
I know what I like.”

“I wish I did,” said Rita. “It would make things much
simpler.”

The other three women in black Siniled at her. Their
smiles were brittle and sophisticated, but underneath there
was something more— a reaching out. Here they were,
friends, having lunch together and wanting to talk things
over. And they were nonchalant and casual, instead, just
as if each of them didn't have a problem she wanted
terribly to talk about.

“It’s so nice being with you,” said Beth Sloane. “It’s
the first time I’ve been with a group of real New York
women. It makes me feel sort of small town and citified
at the same time. You all know all the things I’ll have
to find out.”

“I hope not!” said Rita, and her voice was sharp, though
she smiled.

Tliey paid for their own luncheons, the way they always
paid. Then they left, all together, saying good-byes at the
door. And they planned to meet again— next week if they
could, or the week after.

“You’ll come again, I hope, Mi.ss Sloane,” said Rita.
And the other three in black echoed her invitation.

“I’d love to!” said Beth. “Knowing you will probably
change my whole life. I’ll learn all about New York—
the real New York, I mean. You’re awfully good to let
in a stranger.”

Rita took a taxicab to her office. She was late, and
she had to see a manufacturer about some special material

76

that looked like metal. And all the way in the taxicab she
thought about the girl from Texas.

The girl was so young and so sure about things. She
would never be lonesome— alone. Funny, she had more
than Rita had ever had. Rita remembered when she was
young and frightened and lonely. Nearly as lonely as she
was now. And now she was oldl

She looked at herself in the mirror of her compact. Why,
the lines were even deeper than she had thou^t. She
remembered the smooth, rounded face of the Texas girl.
That was the way girls looked who had glamorous things
happen to them.

Rita knew there would never be any of those things
for her! There never had been. She had worked, and she
had got a reward for working. Success, in a way, during
office hours. Rut nothing outside. This girl would have
everything.

Suddenly Rita felt old— older and more alone dian she
had ever felt. She felt all shriveled under her smart, sleek
clothes! No one cared anything about her; no one would
ever care! And yet, there was Millie. Millie was alone,
too. Maybe the two of them could find happiness— left-
over, old-maid happiness.

After all, she wouldn’t be alone evenings, if Millie were
with her. They could get old— older— together. Millie could
look out for things in the daytime; be there when she
came home. It was giving up, in a way. And yet, what
was she giving up?

Dorothy took a taxicab, too, and nished away to half
a dozen errands. She stopped to look at a new device
for a closet that would make it seem twice as large. She
remembered when her apartment had been small and her
closets so diminutive that she’d needed some such thing.

Now, her apartment was large and full of things people
sent her. But her clothes closets weren’t full. Just a few smart

77

dresses she’d got at special discount, and no one to wear
them for but Ken.

And thinking now about Ken, she felt suddenly as if
Ken were wrong— wrong for her. It was that child who
had done itl That fresh-faced girl from Texas with her
tweeds and her youth and her sureness. That girl wouldn’t
get herself into a mess! She was clear-eyed about things.

Why should she, Dorothy, be ii* a mess? She didn’t
have as much as the girl. First youth v^ as gone, and ideals
—some of them. But she had a job. She could get ahead.
Not many girls in town had a signed column.

Ken. That was it. She’d give Ken up. It was the only
way, really. She’d be lonely; she’d cry at night from lone-
liness. But Ken was married and wouldn’t get a divorce,
ever. He closed the rest of life for her, as if her life
were split with a knife. Her column and her life on the
paper— and Ken. Now she’d have just the newspaper. Her
first love! And maybe sometime .she’d meet someone . . .

Sitting there in the taxicab, she felt hollow inside. As
if she’d had a sort of opera^'on— an operation performed
by a slim girl in tweeds.

She stopped for cocktails at a Chinese shop that was
having an opening, said the right things to the proprietor.
She’d say something in her column: *lf you want your
next cocktail party to be a success, yon must have Chinese'
wafers which have fortunes inside,”

Another taxicab ride, and she was in her own apart-
ment, with Annie, the maid, and dinner all readv for
her. The soft off-white lamps were liihted in the living
room. It was a lovely room, all ivory and apricot and green.

“I’ll be ready for dinner in half a minute,” she told
Annie. “No one’s coming in. I’ll dine alone. Anyone call?”

“Just Mr, Foster,” said Annie.

Just Mr. Foster! And he wouldn’t keep on calling after
she told him.

78

She was going to meet a chap named Woods at die
theater— her tickets; he'd take her for a drink, later. A
colorless young man who was a reporter on the paper.

She’d come home, go to bed. Wake up early. Write
her column and send it to the office by messenger. Start
on her rounds of the shops. Weeks stretched out. Dull
weeks. Dead weeks. Without Kenl

The telephone rang. It was Ken. She’d have to tell
himl She wasn’t young, like that girl, but she knew what
was right.

“I can’t possibly see you later, Ken,” she said. “I didn’t
know you were going to stay in town.” And then— she had
to say it. “Ken, I’ve made up my mind. Really. I’m not . . .
I’m not going to see you again . . . any more!”

Eleanor Beckwith told her guest good-bye and hurried
to her own office. Though why she should hurry . . . just
so she’d be with Hargess that much sooner.

She was there soon enough. A man was waiting for
her. He had designs for hereto okay. She went over them
carefully, making a minor correction, signed her name.
That was that.

She was about to call her secretary for some dictation
when Hargess came into her office. He talked first about
business, standing decently on the other side of the desk,
’rhen he came over to her. A hand slid down her shoulder.

“Don’t do that!” she said sharply.

“What’s the matter? Have a bad luncheon?”

“No.” Her voice rose. “I don’t want to be pawed!”

“Keep yoiu" voice down! You don’t want the girls in
the other room to hear.”

“I don’t care who hears!”

“But I do.”

"Well, th.'it’s fine!” She stood up. She knew what she

79

was going to say. Somehow, she had known all along. Ever
since young Miss Sloane, whom she’d taken to the luncheon,
had been so sure about the men you worked for. Of coursel
You don’t have to take things from men. She didn’t. “Well,
your whole office can hear this. I’m leaving. This is my
resignation. I’ll write it if you want me to. I’m going back
to my home town. I’m getting married, in case you’re
interested.”

“Marriedl” said Hargess.

“Yes. You know”— Eleanor’s voice was smooth, now—
“boy from the home town. Girl makes good in the city,
and career turns to ashes, and she longs for a home and
family of her own.”

Susanne Blake was working on a toothpaste account.
The layout had arrived for it when she got baek to her
office. It really was very effective, she thought. A little
imp, sitting on top of a tube of toothpaste, was instnicting
three little girls as to how to bmsh their teeth. The copy
was good, too. Susanne had the approval of a whole com-
mittee of dentists— that had been her idea, too. She won-
dered what Miss Henshaw would say to that!

And somt'thing funny happened. Instead of Miss Hen-
shaw ’s face, Susanne envisioned a younger, prettier person
—the girl who’d been at luncheon with them. Beth Sloane.
Wliy, that girl wouldn’t let anyone like Miss Henshaw
interfere with her happiness. She wouldn’t carry tales, that
girl! She’d throw back her head aiul be brave and see it
through.

Susanne knew it wasn’t jis if her job were threatened,
really. She’d been here longer than Miss Henshaw had.
Henshaw had changed jobs five times in three years. What
was there to worry about?

It was as if, suddenly, a load had disappeared. Why,
there wasn’t anything to worry about. She had everything:

•80

her home and her job— and Doug! She could take care
ot Miss Henshaw, give her as good as she gave. Nothing
to worry about except the always-present nibble of fear
—fear that someday Doug would be able to get along
without her.

It was three weeks before the girls met again. They
chose the Warwick, this time. The Raleigh Room. It was
an attractive room, and the food was good.

There were five of them again, but not the same five.
Eleanor Beckwith had gone back to Council Bluffs! To
marry her boyhood sweetheart, George Hemple. She’d
gone the week before.

"Just think,” said Dorothy, “she said she made up her
mind the day we had luncheon at the Algonquin. Isn’t
that amazing?” She stopped, for she had made up her
mind about things that day, too. Funny! Something about
that day!

She stuck to her promise, too. It had been even harder
than she had anticipated. Sho^d cried herself to sleep every
night. And she had been tempted to telephone Ken. But
she hadn’t telephoned.

The worst ^^’as over now. At least, she hoped so. After
all, she had her work. Tliat kept her busy. And it was
important, too. And she might meet someone . . .

"That’s funny,” said Rita. “For that was the day I wrote
to my sister to join me here.” She smiled at the fifth
member of the group— a sallow, slightly older replica of
herself. Millie smiled, too.

“I was so amazed when I got Rita’s letter. I thought
it would be weeks before I could get here. But the very
next day some new people in town wanted the house.
So I just left everything and came right to New York.”

"I bet Rita was glad to have you,” said Susanne.

‘Tou’ll never knowl” said Rita.

81 *

She meant it. Funny that she hadn’t insisted on Millie’s
coming before. It was wonderful; almost as wonderful as
having a husband, as being married. Why, with Millie here,
she belonged to someone. They were a family, the two
of them. A woman alone at night is a pitiful si^t. A
woman alone in a restaurant always looks out of place,
forlorn. But two women— that’s different

Rita had shown her sister the city— ':he Empire State
Building, Radio City, the smart shops. They’d already seen
some of the best things in the theater— plays Rita hadn’t
gone to because she didn’t want to go alone. Millie was
wearing one of Rita’s newest gowns. Plain and smart and
black. Why, already Millie looked as if she’d always lived
in New York.

There was nothing else for Rita. She knew that. There
wasn’t any man in sight— never had been. Rita had her
job and her sister— someone to talk to after business hours.
It made life worth while.

Susanne didn’t realize that she had made a decision.
Not being afraid of Miss Henshaw seemed so natural, now,
as if she’d never really been afraid of her. Why, already the
men in the office were getting wise to Miss Ilenshaw,
laughing at her most erudite remarks.

Susanne shuddered to think what would have happened
if she’d gone to Mr. Bullerd with tales about Miss Hen-
shaw. The fear of Miss Henshaw was gone. Her job was
safe. Doug was safe— for a while. But what if someday
Doug . . . The little fear about Doug still nibbled, but just
now even that was vague. It was good, being alive and
having a job— and Doug.

Well, she couldn’t sit here mooning. And that new girl
Eleanor had brought, originally, certainly would feel out
of things if someone didn’t talk to her.

“How do you like New York by this time?” Susanne
asked Beth Sloane.

82

“I still think it’s wonderful,” said Beth. “I changed jobs
since 1 first met you.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. I got sick of that decorator who never thou^t
of anything but color. I’m a receptionist now. No future
there, but 1 can always change. I like it, though. You
see — ” She hesitated.

"What?” asked Dorothy curiously.

“Remember, I was so sure that the boss never tried to
start anything? ‘Only fiction,’ I said. Well, I’m learning.”

“You mean your boss?” asked Rita.

“Yes. Gets fresh! But I can keep him in his place. He’s
a married man, too.”

“Married?” said Susanne.

“Don’t bo so shocked! Yes, he is married. Wife and
family in Great Neck. His wife bores him terribly. It’s a
line, of course, but I’ve seen the wife, so it isn’t all line.
She’s fat and silly! He’s really a lamb. Good-looking, too.
Oh, you needn’t warn m(^ I’m being— careful. When
you’re young, you know what you’re doing. It’s only when
you get older that you get involved emotionally, they tell

99

me.

“Of course,” said Susanne, “only — ”

“I know! T’ll watch my step. But it’s fun. The office
is fun, too, though the telephone girl tried to put a lot
over on me. Wanted me to watch her switchboard for two
hours at lunch and distribute the mail which her hiend,
the office boy. ought to do. So I told the boss.”

"You’re wondcrfull” said Susanne. “Anytiiing else?”

“Nothing else in the office. A lot of things in letters
from home. Yovi know how that is.”

“How is it?” a.sked Susanne.

“Well, my sister wanted to come here, but I told her
no. I don’t want anyone hanging around my neck and

83

writing letters back home about every little tiling. And
my boy friend at home, who hoped I wouldn’t get a job and
would have to come back, has been raising Cain. Wants
me to come home and marry him.”

“You wouldn’t do that?” Rita asked.

“Me? I should say notl I’m just getting started. This town
is full of the best-looking men— my boss isn’t so hard to
look at, if it comes to that!— and I should go home to a boy
I could have had in the beginning! I should say not!”

“I’m glad everything’s going so well,” said Dorothy.
“If— if there’s any advice we can give you ”

“I’ll sure come to you if there is,” said Beth Sloane.
“I know you all know a lot about the city. But I bet
you’ve all got into the habit of not saying everything you
think. I’ve got to talk straight out! Not that you haven’t
helped me,” she added hastily. “You have! Just being with
you. And about clothes. You haven’t said a thing about me!”

They hadn’t said a thing about her! And there she was
—all in black from her smart little hat to the tips of her
just-then-invisible shoes.

“You spoke about wearing black. Successful women—
girls in black. Remember? So I took it right to heart. I
feel, now, that I’m like the rest of you. Smart. A real
New York girl.”

84 *

THE BRONZES
OF MARTEL GREER

F irst of aix, I must tell you that 1 do
not believe Leora Prichard’s story. So
I see no way of convincing you that
it is true. It couldn’t be. And yet . . .

Those people are gone. At least, there has never been
any trace of them. Martel Greer is gone. There remain
only the tiny, inert, sentimental bronzes— and Leora Prich-
ard, weeping on any convenient shoulder in any conven-
ient bar.

Leora Prichard will tell you her story if you’ll give her
enough drinks to make her articulate. Without the drinks,
she is just any girl whom you might meet about town; a
girl who, until yesterday, undoubtedly was beautiful. There
are still traces of that beauty in the curve of her cheek,
in her clear, cool profile. Her body is too sharp in outline.
It has a brittle, fragile look that once was youth and love-
liness; that might have softened into a fine maturity, had
it not been for drink— and Martel Greer.

Leora says she drinks to forget Martel Greer. That may
be, but she does not forget. She sits at a table in a shadowy
bar, and when you— and alcohol— produce the right mood,
she tells the story that cannot possibly be true.

In an occult tale of the East, it could be woven with
the glamour of the supernatural. With its horror uncloaked

• 85 *

by mysticism or beauty, Leora Prichard tells not of an alien
thing out of the past, but of the reason for her excesses.

“It s too bad she’s gone to pieces. She was such a pretty
girl,” her acquaintances say, and they accept her story as
a bit of the mosaic of New York. I cannot believe it, yet
Harriet Demarest and Norman Perkcr and Martel Greer
and the others are gone— and those figurines remain as
Martel Greer’s very substantial contribution to the art of
America.

Perhaps in my mind I join too significantly with Martel
Greer those who disappeared. Certainly the police investi-
gations absolved him of all responsibility.

Martel Greer’s disappearance was of more importance.
After all, he was a real figure in the art world. Yet when
he went away, there was only Leora Prichard’s ridiculous
story.

Probably he went abroad and joined one of the art
colonies or armies that undoubtedly would have welcomed
him. Or, as we had no word of him in Europe, perhaps
he discovered a faraway is’nnd and is even now doing
e.xquisite figurines of lovely native girls. Perha]is tomorrow
he will be back, to make us feel uncomfortable because
we have even listened to Leora’s story.

It was a good ten years ago that people became aware
of Martel Greer. And as they became aware of him. they
became aware of his background.

He was handsome. Even those who didn’t like him had
to admit that. He was near that desirable six-foot mark,
lean enough to look artistic, with dark brown hair which
he wore only a trifle longer than most men.

Greer had come from a midwestem family. His father
had been a doctor, or was it a chemist? No one was sure.
Anyhow, Greer had studied medicine in college and had
specialized in chemistry until more artistic pursuits claimed

86

him. He always dabbled in chemistry a bit; though as he
grew more successful, his laboratory was used mostly for
the casting of his statuettes. He always made the first
casts himself, taking great pleasure in it.

Perhaps these figurines should have been stressed
before. They are important— perhaps more important than
Martel Greer. There are hundreds of replicas of them in
homes and shops and collections all over America.

Martel Greer went to a good art school when he left
his midwestem university. He was no self-made artist. He
was not even a modern. He shuddered at primitives. He
brought to the people their ideal of beauty. His senti-
mental figures peeved the critics, but tiiey brou^t more
money to Greer than if he had done spheres and cubes
mashed together and smooth-faced ladies with one eye,
or rough gargoyles of men.

He always made preliminary drawings. Rather stupid
drawings. Critics had to admit that his finished work was
amazingly better. Then he did his figurine in clay. Finally,
in his own casting furnace, he cast his “master bronze.”
Then he cast several “key” bronzes, from which were cast
the replicas that sold for such high prices.

Greer was odd about his originals. He kept these
“master bronzes” in a glassed cabinet under lock and key.
You could admire whenever you liked, but under no
circumstance could you finger these originals. Greer always
produced, gladly, a replica of the very bronze you wanted
to sec. He kept a reserve stock of them in a storeroom
back of the laboratory, ready to be shipped to art dealers.
He was an excellent businessman.

Most of the bronzes were about four inches high, though
“Child with a Book” is no more than three. And “End of
Day”— the laborer standing half asleep, his dinner pail in
his hand— is nearer five inches.

But don’t gather that Greer specialized in children and

87

workingmen. His money and fame came from figurines
like “Butterfly Girl,” that exquisite statuette of a girl on
tiptoe who has seemingly just caught a butterfly, and
“VVindsprite,” the girl with wild hair running against the
wind.

Greer’s first figures in miniature were unsuccessful,
crude and awkward. Absolutely without beauty or charm.

Before he began to make money from his art, Greer
supported himself by doing chemical analyses. When he
lectured, as he frequently did, to ambitious young artists,
he would smile ruefully over those dismal years.

“I wouldn’t be a success today,” he would say, "had I
spurned humble ways of earning a living. Whether you
dig ditches or sell books or analyze cold cream, if it’s your
way of taking a step tow.ud success, it’s worthy of you.”

In spite of hard work, those first figurines were dread-
ful. So were other things Greer attempted. He painted
huge canvases, following both the academic and the mod-
ern schools. He declared that modern art was a trick and
needed neither technique nos emotion.

“With time, paint and bad drawing, I can turn out a
painting as good as the best moderns,” he used to say.
Yet his own modern things brought him neither money
nor acclaim.

It was after he met Harriet Demarest that he attained
real success. He admitted that his first good figurine, "Wel-
come,” was inspired by her lovely body.

To be sure, the original sketches seemed as amateurish
as anything he had ever done. Friends who happened in
while he was doing the first modeling thought they had
never seen more stupid clay.

For weeks Greer worked over the tiny model of "Wel-
come.” Harriet Demarest on the model throne kept her
difficult pose. 'The statuette seemed lifeless, dull. Only

88

Greer seemed different. Curiously different. He worked
harder. Seemed more nervous. His friends put it down to
artistic temperament.

Suddenly Greer became too busy to see his friends.
He said he needed a couple of weeks alone with his model.
People distracted him. And then the fresh and charming
“Welcome” was finishedi

“He owes a lot to that beautiful girl,” Billy Drust said,
when “Welcome” became a success. “I thought from the
way they both acted that there was romance there. She
certainly brought out a lot in him.”

It was odd, Harriet Demarest’s going away as soon as
the figurine was done. Freddie Harper, I think, was the
last to see her. And that was before Greer “went into the
silence,” a method so successful he continued to follow it.

“She was looking tired,” Harper said. “It was a difficult
pose. Greer mixed her a pick-me-up— a sort of tea, I believe
he said— in his laboratory. She said it refreshed her. She
kept her pose perfectly, then, but I was almost frightened
to see how expressionless sjie looked. After she stopped
posing she complained of feeling stiff in the joints. I didn’t
wonder. It was hard to hold that pose such a long time.
She was quite herself again before I left, and I felt better
about it later, when I saw the charming finished product.”

“Welcome” was a lovely bit of work. It was warm, alert.
Scarcely four inches high, the delicate bronze had a beauty
that onl\' a lovely girl like Harriet could inspire. The sleek
surface of the bron/e reproduced, in miniature, her smooth
young flesh. Every curve of the supple body was there,
seemingly soft and pliant. The original, dark and gleam-
ing, was the first jewel to be placed in Greers cabinet—
that cabinet that w'as to house so many tiny dark jewels.

Greer himself realized the miracle of going from awk-
ward, almost childish work to this glowing piece. “Up to
now, my work has been experimental,” he said. “I had to

89

wait, and leain, till 1 could do the sort of diing I always
had in mind.”

Even the critics who called Greer’s figurines *'three-
dimensional photography” and ”no better than snapshots
done as miniature bronzes” had to admit that in spite of
—or perhaps because of— "Welcome’s” fidelity to nature, it
possessed some virtue. What if it were sentimental? If
critics preferred gnarled old men and obese grotesqueries
of women, the public wanted glowing, slender youth.
"Welcome” sold for excellent prices.

People were surprised when Harriet Demarest did not
pose for Greer again. He himself expressed die greatest
disappointment, though he explained that there never had
been any sentimental attachment diere. Often, between an
artist and his model there is a camaraderie that passes
for sentimentality. You couldn’t help being fond of a girl
like Harriet Demarest if you looked hours at a time at
her lovely body, Greer said.

"I do miss her,” he told everyone. “In a way, my success
came through her. Her old beau from Iowa arrived in
New York and persuaded her to go back home.”

We didn’t see Harriet Demarest again, but that was
natural. If all the gods can provide, as a career in the
city, is posing in studios that are usually too hot or too
cold, no wonder Harriet decided to go home. And yet
there is Leora’s storyl

I don’t know who modeled for “The Secret.” It doesn’t
matter. There were the same dull sketches; the same awk-
ward clay; weeks when Greer was too busy to see anyone
—and then the full perfection of that second bronze, a shy
girl, smiling over some secret memory.

The next piece, I believe, was "Dancer at Dawn.”
Greer said that the model of "The Secret” had gone back
to stenography, from which she had emerged just long
enou^ to gain immortality. "I’m using a new model for

• 90 *

each figurine,” he said. "Variety is one of the things Fm
after. Each girl has a new rhythm. Now, this girl is grace-
ful, flowing. A girl bom to dance!”

She was, indeed. She will dance always in Greer's
lovely bronze.

The figurines continued. Greer became an important
man. He moved from the rickety building which had been
his office and laboratory and home to a charmin^y
remodeled old house. There was a gracious studio, high-
ceilinged, with great north windows. On die gray walls
were Greer s preliminary sketches and some excellent orig-
inals he had picked up. Against the walls were deep seats
covered in smoke-colored velvet, and the long curtains
were brocaded in chartreuse and flame. A sofa of gray
and flame faced the fireplace. And in one comer was the
always-locked cabinet of originals.

There was a model's dressing room off the studio. And
there were living quarters, too. A bedroom done in black
lacquer and crimson. A good kitchen. A closet for wines.
And a really fine laboratory, in which was the small but
perfect casting furnace.

“I might as well keep my hand in,” he laughed when
he showed people the laboratory. "You can’t tell when
the muse will desert me, and I'll have to go back to chem-
istry for a living.”

The curious events, in spite of Leora Prichard’s story,
are, I feel sure, entirely coincidental. Couldn’t it be pos-
sible that people who had modeled for Greer should dis-
appear afterwards and that he was in no way responsible?

Harriet Demarest went home. Greer had told us about
her, and later about his decision never to use a model
for more than one figurine. He couldn’t see why he should
keep track of discharged models. No one ever questioned
him about Harriet or her immediate successors.

It was only when Lucia Bagley disappeared that the
police began to annoy him. Lucia Bagley had come to
New York from Georgia, hoping to go on the stage. When
she couldn’t get on, she had worked as a model; had been
working for some time when she posed for Greer. When
she no longer wrote home, her parents grew worried, asked
for an investigation. The police could find no trace of her
after she left Greer’s employ.

Greer’s story, told with such sincei-ty that the police
were forced to accept it, was that Miss Bagley had indeed
posed for him for several weeks. He showed the prelim-
inary sketches he had made. He pointed to the gleaming
original in the cabinet, handed a replica to the police.

“I finished on a Wednesday,” said Martel Greer. “I paid
her for the whole week. I was sorry to lose her, but I
use a model only once, you know. My public is used to
variety in my figures. Miss Bagley was a fine type, self-
reliant, intelligent. She did not tell me her plans. If there’s
anything I can do tor you, gentlemen?”

There was nothing he could do. The police had found
no trace of the girl after she left Greer’s studio. They
made a perfunctory search of the place, stood in awe while
Greer explained the laboratory, the tiny casting furnace.
There was nothing for them there, certainly.

A few months later Norman Perker disappeared. Perker,
it seemed, had been selling hardware and had lost his job.
And Greer needed a male model. He had had a great
success with “Adonis Moderne.” Perker had represented
himself as single, as indeed he was. It was not until the
police, searching for Perker because of the insistence of a
Miss Blessington, came to Greer’s studio that he learned
of Perker’s love affair. "But this is getting to be annoying,”
Greer said. “I really can’t be responsible for my models
after they leave me. Perker didn’t tell me anything about
his affairs. Perhaps, having no job and fearful of respon-

•92

sibility for the young woman, he went away to get a fresh
start.”

Again the representatives of the law examined Greer s
statuettes; they examined his studio and laboratory with
even greater interest and drank some of his liquor with
the greatest interest of all.

Greer continued to work. The cabinet of originals was
nearly full of lovely figurines. The replicas grew in pop-
ularity. Even the critics who called Greer sentimental were
forced to consider him seriously. Every collection in Amer-
ica held a Greer bronze.

Then came the other disappearances! There is no need
to go into detail. Greer described it as a series of bad
luck. It was that, surely. Through some trick of fate, his
models seemed to disappear forever as soon as he was
through with them! Greer admitted he never heard of
them again. Why should he? He picked them up in shops,
through agencies, on the streets. And they seemed to dis-
appear, as if by magic, as they left his studio! A friend or a
relative would urge the po^ce to make a search— and the
search would lead to Greer!

Greer admitted that the thing was getting on his nerves.
His friends noticed how worn he looked. He was still grace-
ful, well-groomed. But there were times when he was not
himself; when he hard!)- seemed to hear what anyone was
saying.

Gertainly the police did not help him. They came to his
studio in groups and singly. They searched everything
miniitely. They poked into the laboratory: monkeyed with
the miniature casting furnace. Only its size kept them from
being suspicious of it. Greer had to let them see it in action;
had to explain over and over again that it was made only
for casting of four-inch bronze figurines. They even ques-
tioned the models who were posing for him.

One time Greer was so annoyed that he dismissed a

•93

model before he had finished the statuette of her. The bit
of day was still awkward and lifeless and dull. She and
the detective had talked hours on end, so Greer could not
get any work done. He explained that she seemed so much
more absorbed in the detective than in her posing diat he
had to let her go.

"I’ve been keeping track of Miss Burke,” the detective
reported to him later. "She’s posing for a magazine artist.”

"I’m glad she’s working,” said Gretr.

"So am I,” said the detective. "We’re going to get mar-
ried. Never saw her until I met her up here. Well, I quizzed
her enough; asked her if she saw any monkey business
around and she said no, that outside of giving her tea to
drink— which ain’t never hurt no good girl— and making her
pose till she felt stiff as a ramrod, you was a perfect
gentleman. And she ain’t disappeared yeti”

“Good luck to you, and I hope she won’t,” laughed
Greer. He was glad when the police finally ceased to annoy
him.

It was just after this that Leora Prichard came to model
for Martel Greer. He met her in a Village tearoom. She
was crying because she had lost her job.

Greer spoke to her. Leora told him how she had come
East from San Antonio, Texas, three years before. Her par-
ents were dead, and she was an only child. She was twenty-
three. Until she was twenty, life in Texas had been peace-
ful. She had gone to a southern girls’ college and had
worked for a year on a local newspaper. Her mother had
died and she had come to New York.

She hadn’t been able to get work on a newspaper or
to sell the things she wrote. She might have returned to
Texas, but by that time her father had died, too. He left
enough money so that for a while she lived comfortably.
Then she had a couple of disastrous love affairs, which

04 *

left her emotionally scarred and considerably poorer. Now
her money was gone.

“Fve got just the work for you,” Greer said. “Posing.
It's easy. You’ll like it. I work slowly, and I may need you
a whole month. I do figurines, only a few inches high. You
wouldn’t think they’d take that long, but there’s a lot of
detail.”

He paid for her dinner, took her up to his studio. She
was impressed by the high vaulted ceiling, the gray pic-
ture-covered walls. Greer gave her wine, showed her die
figurines, let her hold a tiny replica in her hand.

"It’s heavier than you’d think,” she said.

“Of course it is,” he smiled. “It’s bronze, you know.
Solid bronze. I cast these myself. I’ll show you my casting
furnace.”

Leora spent a wonderful evening. Of course Greer made
love to her, and she admits she fell in love with him. She
hadn’t had anyone to love for months.

That was on a Thursday. Greer made her take an
advance in salary; told h^r he paid better than most
artists because the work was so exacting. “You’ll have to
stand very still,” he said.

She started posing for him on Monday. It was a difficult
pose: hands stretched out, head back, begging from life the
privilege of living. “Supplicant,” Greer said he would call it.

He finished the preliminary sketches, started working
in clay. Leora grew tired. He let her rest, made her pose
again.

“It was odd,” Leora said, “because all he seemed to
care about was that I hold the pose for one hour without
moving. He said I had to do that to *set the pose.*”

At the beginning of the second week he gave her some-
thing to drink.

“It was pleasant and warming, said Leora. “A sort of
spicy tea. It made me feel a little numb, but not awfully

•95

sleepy or drugged. I could keep the pose better, then. But
when I got through posing, after I’d had the tea, I felt
stiff all over. It was from standing so still, he told me.

“He didn’t seem to be getting along very fast He made
a clay model but it wasn’t good, like the finished things.
He said he couldn’t go on with the work seriously until
I learned to hold the pose. Even with the tea, it was hard
to keep absolutely still for an hour at a time. I got better
about the middle of the week.”

Greer continued to make love to her. Leora admitted
she liked that. She’d felt lost for months; had had no one
she cared about. Now it was pleasant, having dinner each
evening with Greer and, after the cook left, drinking his
wine, being held in his arms on the big couch in front of
the fireplace.

He still complained about her modeling. “This is how
you should pose,” he said. He took her to the cabinet,
pointed to one of the figurines. “That’s the first good thing
I ever did,” he said. “I had a charming model. Her name
was Harriet Demarest. A lovqV girl.”

Leora grew jealous. Not of the figurine, of course, but
of the girl who had posed for it. “Let me see itl” she begged.

“No,” said Greer. “The case is locked. I never let any-
one fool with my originals. These are the first ones I cast.
I keep them as models for future castings. If you're good,
when I’ve finished the model of you. I’ll give you one of
yourself— and one of this figure, too. If only you coidd
pose like that! Careless, happy, free!”

The next day he gave her more of the warm, spicy
tea. Timed her pose.

“Forty minutes, and you moved,” he said. “Well, that’s
a little better. It’s important to hold the pose for a full
hour.”

Leora was so stiff she had to rub her knees and her
elbows. It seemed silly to her that the exact time should

96 *

matter. Still, Greer said it did, and he was a great sculptor.
She tried hard.

In the middle of the third week Leora thought die
clay miniature Greer was making of her looked just as it
had the first day he worked on it.

"Tomorrow Til work in earnest,” he said. “You did very
well today. For an hour you didn’t move at all. That means
you can do it tomorrow, too. I’ll make the tea a little
stronger. That will help you. Then, if you can hold the
pose for a full hour, I’ll give you something else to drink.
It will have a funny flavor, but you won’t mind it after
the first sip. You must drink it as quickly as you can and
start posing immediately afterwards. You won’t forget what
I’ve told you?”

“I won’t forget,” Leora promised.

He .seemed jubilant because she had held the pose,
though seemingly he had done no work at all. Maybe men
were all as unreasonable as that, Leora thought. Well, if it
made him happy . . .

As she had done every /light since she had started to
pose for him, she had dinner with him. It was a good
dinner, .\fter the cook left, Greer gave Leora some wine
and held her in his arms on the couch in front of the fire-
place. Then: "You must run along now,” he said. “I’ve got
some casting to do."

“Can’t I help’?” .she begged.

“Not tonight, baby. Perhaps tomorrow night. Get some
beauts' sleep. I want sou to look especially lov'ely tomor-
rosv. Now s'ou’s'e learned hosv to pose, I w'ant to do the
best svork I’ve ever done.”

She svas tired. Her pose was a trying one. 'The tea and
the wine and the fire and Greer’s arms . . .

She svent into the model's dressing room to put on her
hat and coat. She must have come out quietly because
Creer did not look up as she stood in the doorway. He

97

opened a drawer in a carved chest of drawers; felt for
something in the back of the drawer. Then, going to die
cabinet, he put the key into the lock.

So that was where he kept the keyl Well, someday
when he was out she’d open the cabinet, examine the
statuette that was so much lovelier than shel

She wouldn’t let him see that she had been watching
him when he got the keyl She went Lick into the dressing
room quiedy, came out again, this tii.'^e closing the door
noisily behind her. Greer was walking away from die
cabinet.

“Good-bye, dear,” he said, kissing her. "I’ll see you in
the morning.”

'The next morning Greer greeted her in his usual pro-
fessional manner. He never became affectionate until the
hours of posing were over.

“Ill fix the tea for you, and you can take the pose
right away,” she said “Then I’ll get the other drink ready.”
He went into the laboratory.,

The telephone rang.

Greer was annoyed, but he answered the telephone.
His annoyance increased.

"I must run away this minute,” he told Leora. *T11 be
back in half an hour; you might be getting ready to pose
while I’m gone.”

Leora went into the dressing room, took off her clothes.
She threw a dressing gown around her shoulders, went
back into the studio. She picked up a magazine, tried
to read, but she was too resdess to concentrate on the
printed word.

Then she remembered the key. Why not? She’d have
time to see what the figure was really like before Greer
returned.

She found the key easily, went to the cabinet, unlocked

98

the door. She knew the figure, of course. She lifted it out.

It felt peculiar. So much lighter than the other figur-
ines she had held in her hand. Oddi

Without thinking, she locked the case, took out the
key. She carried die figurine over to the long north win-
dows so she could examine it more carefully.

What a lovely thing it was! Greer was right. She was
hard, rigid, compared with this lovely, flowing body. Had
he loved the girl who had posed for this?

She heard Greer’s step on the stairs. Frightened, she
rushed into the dressing room, the figurine in her hand.
If only he wouldn’t notice that it was out of the cabinet.
He would be so angry with herl

"Hellol” he called. Luckily, he hardly ever came into
the dressing room.

"rve been reading. Ready in a minute.”

“Take all the time you want,” he said.

Thank heaven, he was in a good humor! She heard
him walk toward the laboratory.

She put the figurine oif the dressing table. Nervously
she threw off the dressing gown. By accident the sleeve
of the gown bnished the figurine off the table.

The little bronze hit the floor with a pecuh’ar cracking
sound. Funny! Greer had said the figures were of solid
bronze. She reached down to pick up the figurine.

Now, when Leora Prichard tells the story she says diat
even before she touched the figurine she felt what she
was going to discover.

She picked up the figurine. The jar had cracked it,
indeed! It lay now in two pieces in her hand. She looked
at it— and it was not of solid bronze, after all!

Under a thin layer of bronze was something unspeak-
able. Hideous. The tiny broken thing in her hand was not
a bronze replica of Harriet Demarest. It was, by some
strange chemistry, some horrible decrescence, what once

99 *

must have been the lovely, graceful body of Harriet Dem-
arest herselfl

Leora closed her eyes. She wanted to shriek. It couldn’t
be true! Couldn’t be! Yet there it was— in her hand!

Carefully she put down the terrible broken thing. Trem-
bling, she struggled into her clothes. If— if she could only
get out! If only . . .

Greer stood in the doorway of the laboratory. ‘’What’s
the matter?” he asked. “I thought you were undressing!”
His voice was sharp.

"I’m— I’m ill,” she managed to say. “I’ll be back— after
a while.” As if she feared he was going to reach out after
her, she flew down the stairs.

Leora told her story to everyone who would listen, but
people could not believe such a horrible, absurd tale.

The police decided to investigate. It was ridiculous,
of course. Even in modem chemistry, there is no connec-
tion with magic. Still, they wouldn’t have believed in the
radio or television only a few years ago. They’d open one
of those precious statuettes!

Greer was not in his studio when the police arrived.
Feeling a trifle silly, they broke in the door. The place
looked exactly as it had looked before. The studio of a
successful sculptor. On the walls were the same bad
sketches, the same valuable originals. The laboratory looked
shiningly efficient, the kitchen gleamingly neat. casting
furnace was cold. In the dressing room, the dressing gown
hung on its accustomed hook. There were no broken pieces
of a figurine!

The cabinet was locked, as always. And, as always, it
was full of charming bronzes. The police forced open the
door.

The figurines were obviously of solid bronze, just as
Martel Greer had always said! They resisted all hammer

100

blows. They did not crack when they were dropped on
the floor. Of course, Greer could have taken out the orig-
inals, substituted the replicas. It all seemed too absurd.
Well, when he came back ...

Martel Greer has not returned. Still, if an artist wants
to take his money out of the bank, give up his studio and
travel, there’s no reason why he need tell anyone about
his plans. Certainly the police did not find the slightest
evidence of any crime.

The police and the newspapers still expect Martel Greer
to return. Their investigations have been perfunctory, care-
less, fruitless. There seems no reason to do anything; nor is
there, if it comes to that, anything definite for them to do.
As for the hysterical story of a girl who is obviously going
to pieces, I told you in the beginning that I didn’t believe
it.

101

DEAR SISTER SADIE

August 4

D ear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter here Friday
evening when I came home to dinner

and was pleased to learn you and your family are well.

same I can thank God say for my darling wife, family

and self.

Saturday night Hannali and self played bridge with 3
married couples. We play for a 20di of a cent a point
but what I won I had to make good for my darling wife.
I always tell her that it don’t, help me to win when she
always loses, but God bless her, she loves to play cards
and it is a harmless pastime so I only tease her about her
losses, which I gladly make good for her.

Sylvia and W^alter arc both well. It is really about
Sylvia I want to write you about. She is twenty-six \ears
old, and while these days twenty-six years old is not old
for a modem girl, like when you was young, Sadie, and did
not get married until you was twenty-eight and had us
worried for fear you would be on our hands but you fooled
us, Sadie, Ha Hal I would feel more satisfied if Sylvia
was married.

You know she is a lovely girl, being raised so carefully
by us and never being out late the way some girls are, which
is a shame and a disgrace. Never has she done one thing
or hardly one thing of which we can be ashamed, also she

102

can play the piano and cook, which most modem girls
cannot do. Hardly a day passes when she does not in some
way help Hannah in the kitchen with the cooking and
while I would rather eat Hannah’s cooking, for I consider
Hannah the best cook in the world, though you and Ma
always cooked to suit me when 1 was at home.

What 1 would like to say, Sadie, is that if you know
of a nice young man who wants to marry a fine girl,
maybe you could have him come to see us, if he gets in
this city or if not Sylvia could come to visit you. Not that
Sylvia is not popular for night after night some young man
comes here for dinner and they go to the pictures after-
wards but they are not marrying men, Sadie. These days
it is hard to find a marrying man. If I could find a good
man for Sylvia I would take him in the business with me
or if he had a business of his own— (which I would prefer
for then Walter could go in business with me, whidi is
what I plan and the business is not big enough for more
than two, though Walter does not seem to want to settle
down)— I would give him gladly 1 or 2 thousand dollars
for a business of his own.

If you want to write me about this, Sadie, write on a
separate piece of paper and send it to the office for Hannah
opens all my mail and she would not like it if she knew
I was asking you a thing like this. Hannah wants Sylvia
to get married as much as I do but she would not l&e it
for me to ask you, even if you are my sister. She knows
there is no one like Sylvia, who is a fine lovely, sweet
girl but she would rather Sylvia would get a man by her-
self. But take my word for it, Sadie, these men Sylvia
knows are not marrying men and when they are marrying
men they seem to pick out some other girl.

Several years ago Sylvia was intere.sted in a fellow
named Terry Wells, who was no good. He was a mechanic
in a si'rvice station which is no position for a young man

103

who goes with a girl like Sylvia and he had other faults.
I told her he was no good from the start but she kept on
seeing him until I had to put my foot down hard and make
her stop seeing him. Finally her brother, Walter, had to
go and tell him things would be too hot for him if he
didn’t keep away from Sylvia.

Sylvia has not been interested in anyone since that time.
Luckily this Terry Wells left town so he has not bothered
Sylvia since then and I know there wa' nothing between
them but you know how young people are.

We are all well. Sylvia and Walter went to the show
at the Casino last night. I like to see a boy take his si.ster
out though Walter does not go with his sister much for he
has other girls on the brain. He likes a girl named Wanda
Merritt, who would run after him if he gave her any
encouragement but I always say that it is easy enough for
a man to get anybody he wants and there is no use of him
running too much after Wanda Merritt until his sister is
married, for he is only 24 years old and has not even
gone into business, though lately he comes into the store
nearly every day.

Love from all to your family and yourself.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

October 8

Dear Sister Sadie:

I am writing you this at the office because it is about
the matter I wrote you about some time ago. T will write
you another letter at home so Hannah won’t suspect I am
writing to you here as it would hurt her feelings and she
does not like me to hurt her feelings.

It is about Sylvia. Another of her friends was m irned
last week and now she is practically the only pirl left in
her crowd and I am sure she is beginning to feel bad when

104

she sees the nice homes and families her friends have.

I know your daughters are married but they had
opportunities of meeting young men that Sylvia never had
and there never was a finer girl, Sadie, than Sylvia.
Never a harsh word to anyone unless she is fooling with
her brother and answering him the way brother and sister
do. And outside of once thinking she liked a garage
mechanic named Wells, which did not amotmt to any-
thing, Sadie, she has never done anything except of which
a father could be proud and that was nothing and was a
year or two ago and forgotten by everyone.

I would give a nice young man 2 to 3 thousand dollars
for his business, if he was in business or give him that much
or maybe a little more for a home, for all I have saved,
Sadie, is for my dear ones, who I would like to see happy.

W'rite me here at the store if you know of anyone who
would like to meet a fine nice girl like Syh'ia.

Love from all to you and your family, in haste.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

November 29

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter received last Tuesday and am
pleased to know von and vour family are well, the same I
can say of my darling wife, son and daughter.

The turkey came Wednesday for which we all thank
yoii. W'e had a good Thanksgiving dinner which Hannah,
with Svh’ia to help her. cooked in her usual fine way.

A few d.iys after your letter came, Sadie, in which you
said a fiiend of yours, a Mr. Herbert Fidler, would tele-
phone us because he was in our city and wanted to meet
some young people, the telephone rang and it was Mr.
Fidler. Sslvia happened to be home and answered the
telephone. .\s he was your friend Hannah suggested that

105

Sylvia ask Mr. Fidler to dinner for the meals at even the
best hotel here, the Wilson House, are none too good.

Well, Hannah and Sylvia cooked a fine dinner and as
you know, yourself, Hannah is a wonderful cook and in a
few years, if she has a home of her own, Sylvia would be
just as good a cook as her mother, if she had a nice young
man to cook for.

Hannah was still in the kitchen when Mr. Fidler came
but Sylvia had put another dress on al'd was waiting in
the living room.

Mr. Fidler, as I need not tell you, Sadie, is a fine
young man. He spoke very nice of you folks. He brought
Sylvia a fine box of candy and after dinner her and Walter
and Mr. Fidler and Walters girl friend, Wanda Merritt,
went to the Palace, the big new picture house here.
Tonight Mr. Fidler and Sylvia and Walter and Miss
Merritt have gone out again. He was here tonight to din-
ner, too, but young folks can’t stay in the house a single
evening. Mr. Fidler is going away tomorrow but he will be
back in a few weeks.

Love from all to your family and yourself.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

February 12

Dear Sister Sadie:

I do not like to have to take up the subject with you
again, Sadie, but I wonder if you know any nice young
men who would enjoy meeting a fine, lovely young girl
like Sylvia, if they come to this town. I am writing this
from the store because you know how Hannah is about
Sylvia, but she would be happy if a nice young man should
care for our daughter.

That Mr. Fidler was very nice but before he left he
told Sylvia he was interested in a young lady in his home

106

town and while we were glad to open our home to him
while he was here it was not what I would call much of a
chance for Sylvia. I know how you feel about this, Sadie,
but it would make me very happy if Sylvia could meet a
nice young man.

1 have been doing pretty well in business tlw winter
so if Mr. Right, as they say, came along I could give him
from 5 to 6 thousand dollars for a business or for a home.
Let me know here at the store or the way you did before
so Hannah won't know I wrote to you.

Your ever loving brodrer,

Fred.

May 11

Dear Sister Sadie:

You will be glad to know that on Monday our telephone
rang and it was your friend, Mr. Richard Berger. He
introduced himself to Sylvia and as soon as Sylvia learned
he was a friend of her Aunt Sadie’s she invited him right
out to dinner.

Hannah, with Sylvia’s help, got up a very fine dinner
for Mr. Berger and he seemed to enjoy it, for Hannah, you
know, is a grand cook and so is Sylvia when she wants to
help her Mother. Walter had a date which he could not
include Mr. Berger and Sylvia, so Mr. Berger and Sylvia
stayed at home. Hannah and I urged them to go out be-
cause we know how young people are but Mr. Berger is a
home boy and was tired besides, so Hannah and I went
into the dining room and played Honeymoon Bridge
because we felt that young people should be alone. They
had on the television and at 10 o’clock Haimah took them
in some nice sandwiches and a home made fruit drink,
which Mr. Berger seemed to enjoy a great deal. 'Then he
had to leave because he had an early business date. He

107

will telephone Sylvia again and maybe Walter and his girl
friend, Wanda Merritt, the four of them can go someplace
together.

I thought you would like to hear about Mr. Berger, who
we like a great deal.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

August 15

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter received and I am glad to
note that you and your family are well, same I can say
of my dear wife, son and daughter.

Sylvia and Walter are at the birthday party of Hannah’s
cousin, Luella Corwin’s daughter. You met her when you
were here. Rosalyn Corwin. She is twenty-four, today. A
nice, quiet girl. Walter is escorting his sister and I think
it is ver>' nice for a brother to take his sister places and
I wish my son would take his sister more but usually he
is with his girl friend, Wanda Merritt. But tonight Miss
Merritt had an engagement she could not get out of so
Walter took his sister.

Hannah and I hav'e been playing biidge everv' Thurs-
d ■ ' 'ht with a club we call the ‘Thursday Night Out
-wO,” because that is the night your maid goes out,
though with hvo women in the house like Hannah and
Sylvia we don’t need a maid I won and Hannah lost so
it about evened things up. We go with fine people, Sadie,
four couples in all and we had a very good time.

Love from all of us to you and your family.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

P. S. Hannah has gone to bed, now, so I can say what I
had in mind. We never saw Mr. Berger again. He sent
Sylvia a post card saying that he was called out of town

108

on business. I guess he thought more of business than
about meeting a fine girl so it is just as well Sylvia learned
of this at the start. If any other young man you know
comes to town we will do all in our power to make their
stay enjoyable.

October 15

Dear Sister Sadie:

On Friday evening the telephone rang and it was your
friend, Mr. Lester Morris, who was in town on business.
Sylvia happened to be home and answered the telephone
and invited Mr. Morris to dinner the next evening. Mr.
Morris came with some beautiful flowers for Sylvia, which
she put in a vase but they were so tall we couldn’t leave
them on the dining room table.

In the evening Sylvia and Mr. Morris and Walter went
to the Palace, as Walter did not have a date because his
girl friend. Miss Merritt, had a date which she could not
get out of. S)’l\ia said they had a ver>' good time.

We again invited Mr. Morris to dinner because on Sun-
day there is nothing to do in town and the meals are so
bad at the Wilson Il»)use, where Mr. Morris is staying. Han-
nah baked a nice chicken and deep dish apple pie, which
Mr. Morris said he does not get in a hotel and you can
bet he is right because S>’lvia helped her mother with the
dinner and is getting to be as good a cook as Hannah is.
After dinner Walter had a date for which he did not need
tlie car so Sylvia showed Mr. Morris our city.

On Monday Mr. Morris took Sylvia to the Casino and
then for a soda at the Palace of Sweets, where they met
some of Sylvia’s friends and had quite a nice time. Mr.
Morris left on Tuesday but he will write to Sylvia, he
told her.

•109

I thought that you would want to know what a hit
Mr. Morris made with Sylvia and with all of us.

Love from us all to you and yours.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

December 14

Dear Sister Sadie:

Well, Sadie, today I have some wonderful news for you.
It is about Lester Morris and our darling Sylvia. Well,
last night Lester asked our darling to marry him!

Hannah and I were playing Honeymoon Bridge in the
dining room when he proposed to her in the living room
and they came right in to tell us. You can imagine how
happy Hannah and self are, because Lester is such a fine,
upright young man, as you, yourself, know.

They will be married in early Spring and I will give
them money to buy a house in the suburbs and Lester
will go into business in town and give up his travelling
position, which is not so much these days, anyhow. I would
not like to see her married to a man who travelled.

With Sylvia married Hannah and I will be well satis-
fied. We are not in a hurry for Walter to marry for he
is still young but with his sister married I do not think it
will be long before he is married, too. I will be proud, Sadie,
with two married children. And before long maybe some-
one to call me Grandpa, but that is counting your chickens
before they are hatched, as they say.

Love from all to you and your family.

Your loving brother,

Fred.

January 12

Dear Sister Sadie:

Just a few lines to let you know that we are well.

• no*

Lester left town yesterday. Before he left I went with
him and Sylvia to select a ring for Sylvia. I got it for him
wholesale. It will be ready in a few days. We will not
announce Sylvia’s engagement until the ring is on her
finger, though Hannah wrote the news to her relatives in
Centralia.

Shall write you again soon.

Love from all to your family and yourself, in haste,
Your loving brodier,

Fred.

P. S. It tickles Hannah when Lester helps her in the kitdien
and calls her Mother. Sylvia had a few girls at the house
Tuesday afternoon and Lester sent her a beautiful doll,
so you can imagine the noise the girls made when it came.

January 18

Dear Sister Sadie:

Just a few lines to let you know the news. After he is
married to Sylvia Lester will then go into business here
or into the store with me. We do not want him on tire
road so he will give up his job before the wedding takes
place.

We will announce the engagement at a party on Sat-
.urday night. Sylvia has her ring and it is really beautiful
—one a girl can well be proud of. We are so happy to see
Sylvia is so in love with Lester and has forgotten that
wretch, Terry Wells, an automobile mechanic and no
one suitable for Sylvia, who once she acted very foolish
over but who she does not think of any more at all.

Hannah and Sylvia are planning a very nice supper for
Saturday. I wish that you or some of your family could
be here.

Love from us all to you and yours, in haste.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

•Ill*

March 3

Dear Sister Sadie:

Well, Sylvia and Lester were married last night so now,
as I tell everyone, 1 have not lost a daughter but have
gained a son. It was a beautiful home wedding and I wish
some of you folks could have come here for it. Hannah’s
sister and her brother-in-law came up from Centralia.

Sylvia had as her attendants her i^hird cousin, Rosalyn
Corwin, her best friend, Freda Gore, who was matron of
honor as she is a married woman and Walter’s girl friend,
Wanda Merritt. Walter was the best man. The house was
decorated in Early Spring flowers and we had a caterer
in, though Hannah baked some of the cakes herself, Sylvia
helping, for they wanted to have some of their own cook-
ing at the wedding and it was better than a caterer could
have done. Lester’s relatives could not come so it was just
a small home wedding. I’ll put a clipping from our news-
paper in with this letter and you will see how much the
paper thinks of us and Sylvia.

Right after the wedding S>lvia and Lester left for
Atlantic City. They will be gone two weeks and will see
ever) thing including a visit to New York. Sylvia has never
been in New York but Lester has. I know they will have
a good time.

When they come back they iire not going to house-
keeping right awa>. Lester wanted to but I said it was a
shame to spend the money now, especially with Lester
not having anything to do since he gave up his road job
which didn’t amount to much any more, anyhow, and has
not found anything yet. so I told them to take Sylvia’s
room for which w’e bought a complete suite of ten pieces
only three years ago. She will have to put away some of
the ornaments now that it is partly a man’s room. Sylvia
said that anything we decided on would suit her. She is

112 *

a fine, good girl and deserves the fine young man she is
married to.

Well I know you will be glad to know we are all so
happy. I don’t think it will be long now before Walter is
married and settled down the way he feels about Wanda
Merritt and we will be happier than ever.

Sylvia got beautiful presents. Two tables in the living
room full. I forgot to mention the flat silver you sent but
Sylvia will thank you hers<'lf. It will come in handy when
the young couple have their own home.

I am too tired to write more. T said to Hannah that we
are on the shelf with a married daughter.

With love to you all from us here,

Your loving brother,

Fred.

August 21

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter received this morning. Am
sorry you are not feeling well but hope you will be O.K.
by the time these few lines reach you.

My darling wife. Cod bless her. Sslvia and son, also
self, are thank Cod well but my newly wed son-in-law
ought to be in H 1

He has left our hous<‘! He is probably at the Wilson
House. And Sylvia WILL CET A DIVORCE!

I know this news will be a surprise to you, Sadie. And
believe me, we arc more than surprised. Hannah and self
did as much and more for him than for our own children.

How can a man change the way he has! He is a second
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My poor darling wife is so ner-
vous and unstrung over all this. Sylvia, Cod bless her, is
trs’ing to make the best of it. She has been so unhappy
the last few weeks, unknown to us and now she is glad

113

to have it over. There is nothing so bad it could not have
been worse.

Sadie, I thought so much of Lester 1 would have given
him all I possess. But thank Heavens I DID NOTI

Hannah and I were in Centralia for tw'o weeks, visiting
Hannah’s family. When we left nothing was wrong be-
tween Sylvia and that WRETCH. Our darling child was
happy. Walter was helping me in lousiness and Sylvia
married. Our pleasure was complete. We thought we could
have a little change.

While we were gone something happened. We do not
know what. And our darling Sylvia says that suddenly
Lester told her he no longer loved her. Does that seem
possible, Sadie, out of a clear sky?

Anyhow, Sadie, we got home the day before yesterday
and yesterday Lester packed his bags, said good-bye and
left our house!

Today he came into the store and told me he had left
Sylvia!

Sylvia was married 5 months and 16 days. Then the
damn wretch left our house! How disappointed we all are
in Lester Morris! Well, we will have to make the best of
this unfortunate trouble.

Love to you and your family from all of us.

Your brother,

Fred.

August 2.3

Dear Sister Sadie:

No doubt you were terrible shocked and surprised at
my letter in regard to Lester. I hope my dear wife will
get over this. Now she is a nervous wreck, Sadie.

We thought the world of him, Sadie. How a man could
change so is something that cannot be described in writing.
He says he cannot live with our darling Sylvia! And I,

•114

myself, up to a few weeks ago, never met such a happy
couplet

Sylvia said he changed suddenly while we were in
Centralia, saying he wanted a divorce. She told him she
was happy and didn’t want a divorce. She cried all night
and could not sleep.

The papers were signed this afternoon. My lawyer fixed
them. Lester would not tell Walter nor the attorney nor
self why he wanted to get rid of Sylvia. He said no one
will ever find out. The lawyer told me he would try his
utmost to find out.

And Lester told me though I never asked him, that his
money was so fixed that no one could get it. I never knew
he had any money.

I have the store to think about, but my poor wife and
daughter are the sufferers having nothing to think of. We
never deserved this in our little family. Lester was a grand
man when we first met. What turned him against our dar-
ling daughter? We nor she can not explain.

You ought to see the good time we had on his birthday.
Hannah cooked everything he liked.

I’ll close for today as I do not want to trouble you with
a longer letter. Lester changed from a diamond to a piece
of coal. We cannot find out why because he has always
been as silent as a clam, but poor Sylvia, of all her girl
friends, is unhappy. We are all broken up.

Love to all from your broken hearted brother,

Fred.

August 24

Dear Sister Sadie:

I again write a few lines to let you know what is going
on here. Last night at the dinner table Sylvia said to
Hannah and self that she is going to call up Lester at the

•115

Wilson House and have a talk with him. Well, Lester told
her to meet him at the hotel.

She left at 8 o'clock. And lo and behold this morning
they both came to the store and said they were going to
try to forget the past. Sylvia, I see now, was maybe a
little to blame, as they must learn one another’s ways. I
hope they will not get a divorce. I w'll close now and get
a little dinner. 1 have not eaten anyth.ng for several days
as I have had no appetite.

Love to all, assuring you I shall keep you posted in
regard to Sylvia and Lester.

I am your ever loving brother,

Fred.

August 26

Dear Sister Sadie:

This will be my last letter to you about that skunk,

Lester, for he has gone— and I hope to H ! When our

poor darling Sylvia went to the Wilson House he had the
poor child sign some papers and gave her 6 notes for
$500 each and she signed a paper releasing that scoundrel
from all claims, alimony, etc., she could bring against him.

She is back home. And only two days ago he said
they would start all over again! He is a lying skunk and
did not mean that at all.

This morning she called up the hotel and he had
checked out. The lawyer told me that it he got S)lvia to
sign a paper this will release him of everything.

Sadie, can you believe it. the lawyer now tells me that
he finally almost as much as told the lawyer, when the
lawyer kept after him that he wanted a divorce because
Sylvia was not true to him and had deceived him before
and after her niarriage. And now I know he told Sylvia
practically the same thing when she went to the hotel.

Sadie, outside of once running around with a garage

•116

mechanic named Terry Wells, which never amounted to
anything, Syhia has never done anything in her whole
life to displease Hannah or self.

Lester has made us all miserable. Should such a man
go unpunished? I would like to stab him or do him some
other harm but I want to live for my poor wife and family.
He is afraid of me but my hands are tied.

We are all in the dark about Lesters horrible actions
toward our darling daughter, who, the Lord knows, deserves
a man who would appreciate and love her. She loved him
to the very last. I trust he will get his just dues for he
wrecked my family for some time to come.

I shall not write any more about this skunk because
he has left town. I am heartbroken on account of my poor
daughter.

With love to all I remain your ever loving brother,

Fred.

P. S. I wonder if he will pay those notes when they are due.

Sept. 5

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter just received.

Now do not feel bad on account of the doings of that
miserable scoiindrel. You only wished for the best. We
u'ere getting along so nicely before we met that wretch
and all we needed to complete our happiness was a good
husband for S>'lvia. ^^'hen Lester Morris came we were
overjoyed but not for long. You are not to blame because
my poor wife is a nervous wreck.

My poor daughter yesterday told me she did not even
read what he told her to sign. And once I even told that
wretch he coxdd go into business with mel I would
undoubtedly have bought them a home or started him in
business if he had only waited a while. I had nothing but

117

fatherly feeling for him. Just think, when I came bade
from Centralia and brought Walter a tie I brought that
scoundrel a tie, too! When he left the house he left the
tie, which he had never worn. I said I’ll wear the new tie
and Walter took the cuff links that Hannah had given him,
which he left, too.

Luckily Sylvia still has the bonds I gave her when she
was married. She told that wretch he could use them but
luckily he never did. Oh, what an elegant life he had
with us! It seems he was under the impression we wanted
his money— and I never knew he had any until he was
gone.

Sylvia says that on her honeymoon he was a perfect
gentleman. And that he was simply grand after they
returned home.

While we were in Centralia something happened. I do
not know what. And Lester told Sylvia if people were
unhappy together they should get a divorce. She told him
why Lester I am happy and dearly love you. And she
does yet, if the truth be known, for she never thinks of
anyone but Lester, not even of that bum, Terry Wells,
she once used to care about, who, Walter told me, is back
in town again, though Sylvia luckily does not know this
for she has enough on her mind and I hope she won't find
out, though she no longer thinks of him at all.

When Sylvia met Lester at the hotel he even brought
up the fact that they didn’t have a home of their own
though he and Sylvia had a beautiful room and he ate
Hannah’s fine meals and they intended getting a home
when he was settled. But he said that was not what made
him leave Sylvia. I know, now, that Sylvia finally got out
of him that he had got a letter from someone saying Sylvia
was not true to him and the letter gave even the license
number of the car she went out in. Can you imagine that!
And my poor daughter, a good and pure girl, never in her

118

life doing anything wrong. Sylvia asked to see the letter
but he would not show it to her and it was too late when
she finally told me for me to do an)^diing about it. That
wretch believed Sylvia had an affair with some man before
and after her marriage which she had never told him abouti
Isn’t that a terrible thing to believe about a lovely girl
like Sylvia?

Now in this state a man need not pay alimony to a
wife unless she has children so Sylvia cannot get a cent,
though if she can collect those notes she is that much to
the good. The lawyer says he can make it hot for that
skunk if he comes to town and these notes are not paid.

Sylvia went out with the girls yesterday but she told
Hannah she sees Lester before her all the time, even
though he told her, just to have something to say, that she
was a bad girl. What a mean liar— for Sylvia had told her
mother all about her honeymoon.

My lawyer told me not to get excited so I stopped
carrying the knife I had with me for I must live for my

family, though I wish him in H ! But you are not to

blame. Time brings many changes. We were such a happy
family.

Love to you all from us.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

Sept. 11

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your welcome letter received this morning and answer
at once. Am pleased to know you are well, same I can
say for my darling wife and family today.

About that skunk— do not worry I will not beat him
up or injure him in any way for my lawyer says I must
live for Hannah and the children and besides I do not think
he is in town.

• 119 «

Hannah and Sylvia go to picture shows and different
places to divert their minds but Sylvia says that skunk is
before her all the time.

I have written you nothing but trouble but I feel
relieved when I can write and explain everything. The
case will not come up for some time and Sylvia can with-
draw this in a minute’s notice but the lawyer thinks the
quicker he is out of our minds the better for all of us.

With love to you all from all of us I am.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

P. S. Sylvia has her engagement ring. She must have had
a presentiment for she did not wear it to the hotel. Oh,
that wretch, to believe stories about his innocent wife!
Now I am an Atheist and believe in nothing!

December 2

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter received today and answer
at once. We are all thank God well and am pleased to
know you are well. Allow me to thank you for self and
family for the turkey sent us as a Thanksgiving present.

I am sorry I forgot your birthday and your anniversary.
My heart was so full I forgot everybody and everything
but thank Cod I am back to earth again.

Hannah and S\Kia still bring up Lesti'r’s name but no
doubt will get over this in time. Last year that scoundrel
had Thanksgiving dinner with us, for he was courting
Sylvia.

Again thanking you for tlie turkey which I hope some
day to reciprocate, with love to you all from all of us,
I am your ever loving brother,

Fred.

120

July 19

Dear Sister Sadie:

Although you owe me a letter cannot refrain from writ-
ing you a few lines, informing you of the welcome news
that Sylvia received her divorce from that wretch yester-
day morning. She is now, thank God, free, which is far
better than to live the life she had for five months.

There was a large item in our yesterday’s paper and
send you the clipping. By this item everyone in town
can see that it was not Sylvia’s fault. That is fine, for
since that bum, Wells, is back in town, Sylvia sees him
sometimes by accident and you know how people gossip
about nothing.

When I was in the Judge’s office I told Walter, who was
there with Sylvia and self, that a certain man sitting near
the Judge was a newspaper reporter. You see I was right
as usual.

With love to you all I am your loving brother,

Fred.

FIVE MONTHS OF HONEYMOON
Couple Divorced on Wife’s Charges

Sylvia Morris, 29, 362 Elm Street, was granted a
divorce from Lester Morris, address unknown, in the Court
of Domestic Relations yesterday. They were married March
2, and separated August 21, last year. Mrs. Morris testified
his temper and his associations with other women caused
her to leave him.

November 16

Dear Sister Sadie:

Not having heard from you for some time thought I
would write you a few lines to let you know that we are
all thank God well, hoping they will find you and yours
(he same.

121

Sylvia is going away on a trip. She, and a firiend of
h»s, leave here on the 21st of this month for Columbia,
Missouri. They bought their tickets and sleepers yesterday.
The friend has a sister-in-law in Columbia, who wrote her
to come and bring a girl friend along. They can have a
nice time. You can’t tell what will come of a trip like that
as there are lots of fine young men in Columbia as a
college is there. Sylvia is too old for college boys but she
will meet professors, too. 1 am glad Sylvia will get away
because she sometimes sees that bum. Wells, by accident
and if she is out of town she cannot run into him.

1 will close today for 1 have no more news to write. 1
have not ordered my Thanksgiving turkey yet but there is
time for that. We will be at home on Thanksgiving and
buying a turkey is cheaper than buying medicine. Hope
you all remain well.

With love to you all from all here,

1 am your loving brother,

Fred.

November 22

Dear Sister Sadie:

Your ever welcome letter 1 received this morning, happy
to know you are all well, same 1 can thank God say for all
of us.

We heard from Sylvia this morning, stating that she
arrived safe in Columbia, Missouri. I hope something comes
of this visit

Thank you for the nuts you sent us. Also thanks for
the turkey, which I will be looking for on Tuesday or
Wednesday. I have already countermanded the order given
my poultryman for a 15 pound turkey, for though Sylvia

• 122 *

is away, we will invite company for as you know Hannah
is a fine cook.

With love from us all.

Your ever loving brother,

Fred.

January 8

Dear Sister Sadie:

You owe me a letter but I will have to write and tell
you the news about our son, Walter, and Rosalyn Corwin.

When that Wanda Merritt, who our son once thought
he was so crazy about, became engaged to that Mr. Fidler,
who you once sent to meet our family, I said to him,
Walter, why don’t you go with Rosalyn Corwin, who is a
sweet girl and from a good family, a third cousin of Han-
nah's. He said she is so quiet. But to make a long story
short he went with her several times, taking her to the
theater, etc.

Yesterday morning, going down town in our car, he said
Dad, I have good news to tell you, I am engaged to
Rosalyn Corwin. He has not given her a ring but will do
so the latter part of the week. Tonight at dinner he told
Hannah and Sylvia and they were so pleased they could
hardly speak. They both knew he went with Rosalyn Cor-
win but did not think he loved her enough to marry her.

He has been in the business with me two years now
so for a wedding present I will give him a 1/3 interest.

I did not suspect anything, though on her birthday he
paid $27.50 for her present, perfume and other things. I
surely did not think Walter was so much in love.

That bum. Wells, a garage mechanic who people gos-
sipped about when Sylvia met him by accident has left
town, for good this time I’m glad to say.

Sylvia met a fine young man, a Mr. Stanley Tucker,
the other night, and he is coming here to dinner toni^t

123 *

and then is taking her out. I do not know if it is anything
serious but we hope for the best. After her dreadful mar-
riage experience and escape from that wretch, Lester, it
.will take a very fine young man to make Sylvia even want
to be married again.

I have written you a long letter telling you all the
news so will close.

With love to all from here.

I am your loving brotiier,

Fred.

• 124 *

INTERVIEW

jr LBERTA BIDDLE, who wFOtc “Stars as I
/ \ Know Them,” for Screen Stars Maga-
1 \.zine, held her coat— imitation beaver
—the way she thought movie stars held theirs as she gave
her name and asked if Lily Trent were in.

“Go up to Suite D9,'* said the clerk, who looked like an
expressionless lemon.

On the way up Miss Biddle began thinking of a begin-
ning for her interpretation of the life of Lily Trent. A lot of
magazine stories had already been written about her, Miss
Biddle knew. And these did not always agree with news
stories which had also been printed. Miss Biddle admired
Lily Trent tremendously— felt that she had been badly mis-
treated by reporters. Well, what did that matter? Here was
Miss Trent, still a star, even if .she could no longer play
ingenues, with a suite in the best New York hotel, a
home in Hollywood, admirers, everything, and still impor-
tant enough to write about— while the reporters who
maligned her were still only reporters. If they had their
jobs at all.

Miss Biddle knocked on the door of Suite D9. Her
pinched little face took on the expression of one about
to enter a place of worship. She wet her lips. The lipstick
she used was the wrong color— just as her blouse was die
wrong color. They were gifts of stars she had interviewed
—Miss Biddle was not a gift-horse gazer.

125 *

A maid in a neat cap and apron ushered her into a
correct living room, formal, cold; too full of satin-covered
furniture. Miss Biddle did not notice that the flowers were
hanging their heads wearily.

“Miss Trent will see you in a few minutes.” Miss Biddle
felt that the maid s hushed voice was as it should be. She
sat down on an imcomfortable chair.

A woman came in briskly. She was buxom, with a
curved nose and full, dark lips. Miss Trent’s secretary.
Miss Biddle wondered why Lily Trent had a secretary of
this type, though she had heard that Sally Mason mothered
her, kept undesirable people away. She seemed so coarse
for this position.

“Howjdol” she said harshly. “Miss Trent’s just getting
up. Be right in. Awfully busy here in New York. Seeing
you as a special favor. No other interviews this visit.”

Miss Biddle didn’t want to contradict her, though she
know of several other writers who were seeing Lily Trent.
Oh, well, she knew she’d get a good story. Miss Trent was
always so— well, gracious.

Sally Mason listened, turned toward the door. Alberta
Biddle stood up. They both waited. A door closed down
the private hallway. Lily Trent came into the room.

You would have known she was a screen celebrity. She
was slender and her hair lay in golden curls flat against
her head. Her face was all of a tone, covered with a
beige make-up which seemed as thick as cream. Her
nose was small and straight, her cheekbones high. Her
eyes were wide apart and rather ridiculously made up,
with deep blue shadows above them and exaggerated
lashes. Her eyebrows were thin half-circles which gave her
an expression of constant inquiry.

Her mouth was red and full. She was wearing a negligee
of turquoise brocade and she held in her hand a single
white orchid— her fad for the moment. Last year it was

126 *

Southern magnolias; but those were too hard to get— and
too large.

"My dear Albertal”

Lily Trent’s voice was low and deep. She made a great
pretense of kissing Miss Biddle.

“You’re looking simply beautifull" Miss Biddle managed,
though she was almost overcome.

“I’m a wreckl Your New York and late hours do ter-
rible things to mel’’ She laughed to show she didn't
think she was a wreck at all. Her laughter made her
remarks seem clever and important. She never laughed
after anyone else’s remarks.

“Now, Miss Trent!” protested Alberta Biddle.

“Have you had breakfast?” Lily Trent sank into the
biggest chair. “I’m starving. We can talk after we’ve
ordered.”

Miss Biddle had hoped the interview would include
breakfast. She had eaten hours before, but breakfast widi
Lily Trent was not the sort of thing a movie interviewer
refused.

“Breakfast is the most delightful meal.”

Lily Trent was very gay. “Sparkling” and “casual” were
two of the things Miss Biddle would say about her. “I
always say, if I can have breakfast and tea I can skip
luncheon. Dinners are fun, too— a few friends and candle-
light. I loathe formal meals— and a lot to drink. I never
drink at all, you know. The way I was brought up, I guess.
I still feel it isn't— feminine.”

Miss Biddle snapped up die words with her pale, ear-
nest eyes. Why, the interview would write itself if Miss
Trent kept on. Miss Trent kept on.

“An omelet? That’s too usual. Eggs Florentine. They do
them well here. And I’m keen for dozens of little hot
muffins. And a great pot of coffee. You order, Sally. Alberta
and I can start chatting. What kind of a story do you want.

127 •

dear? I don’t know a thing exciting— I’m just happy with
my work and my home and my friends. But you write
such lovely stories I know I’m safe in your hands. I can
be myself. Only, you'll be careful. Some of the stories—”

“I know!” NIiss Biddle nodded vigorously. “This is a
story from the time you were a little girl. For my series,
‘Stars as I Know Them.’ Maybe you’ve noticed—”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, dear.” Miss l.’ent smiled sweetly.
She had been quite annoyed when she saw, each month,
the stories Miss Biddle had written about other stars, and
had turned the page quickly, searching for her own pub-
licity.

"I want to know all the little things about your life,”
said Miss Biddle. “Your admirers know the main facts, but
I want you to tell me the things you’ve never told before.
Then I can give my own version.”

“How nice!” Lily Trent nodded understandingly. ‘Tou
mean from when I was a little girl?”

“Yes.”

Alberta Biddle leaned forward.

“I had a pleasant but not very remarkable childhood.”
Lily Trent laughed— that low laugh, at herself— again. “We
lived in a big old house. Mississippi. My people were cotton
planters. But they’d lost most of their money by the time
I was bom. You know— poor but proud. I wasn’t one of
the rich girls who go on the stage for fun.”

“And when you were little. Miss Trent?”

"Of course! Well, I wasn’t very pretty. Really, I wasn’t.
My older sister was much prettier. 'There— I don’t think
I’ve ever told anyone that. She was a home girl. She died
three years ago.”

Lily Trent looked very sad. Mi.s.s~Biddle felt that if her
fans could see her like this they’d never believe any of
the stories the newspapers printed about her.

128

LUy Trent was thinking. About Agnes. Imagine telling
that for one of their damned storiesl Why, it was what
happened to Agnes that made her what she was. Agnes
was a good kid. Sweet. Even if they had lived on the
worst street in town, Agnes could have kept away from
Tony Prescott. Lilyd never have trusted Tony.

Shed never forget waking up and finding Agnes crying.
Great, heavy sobs. Her head buried in her pillow.

“Oh, GodI” Agnes cried. “What am I going to do?"

She muttered that sentence over and over again. When
she finally sat up, her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed.
And she told Lily— Tony had got her into trouble!

Pa found out. He couldn’t help it, the way Agnes cried
all the time. He knew what to do. He forced Tony to marry
Agnes. And Agnes not seventeen.

Lily didn’t know, now, if that had been the best thing.
It seemed the best thing then.

Agnes had the baby. Tony was drunk all the tune. And
ran around with women. And half of the time there wasn’t
enough food in the house. And Agnes getting old before
her time. It teas Agnes who helped Lily make up her
mind never to let any man put anything over on her.

Ma helped, too, if it came to that. Poor pa! He wasn’t
mean like Tony. He was just u'orthless. One job after an-
other, from the railroad to odd jobs. He'd got info trouble a
couple of times. She hadn’t known what it was about, but
ma’s eyes had been red for days.

Poor Agnes! Now she was dead. The last years Lily
luid done all she could for her, though as she grew older
Agnes grew hard, and drank too much, always expecting
things and taking it for granted that a movie star had
to look out for her relatives. They had all sort of black-
mailed her— you pay us and tee'll keep out of your way.
Well, Agnes was dead, and pa and ma were dead, and
Tony had disappeared. The kid was always getting into

•129

trouble and needing help. He was a bad egg—Uke Tony.
WeU, if he fust stayed away from her!

**You haven’t any people at all?” asked Miss Biddle.

“No one.*

Lily Trent’s eyes filled with tears. “My parents are
dead. 1— I never ^d any babies.*

“But you have so many friends,” sai'l Miss Biddle. She’d
written, ‘A Girl Against the World.’ “Now tell me about
your school days.*

^“You know how schools are in small towns,* lauded
Lily Trent.

She visualized the school. A great cube of brick, with
a yard worn bare of grass. The teachers, frustrated women
who flattered the children of the towns prominent citizens.
Those children were smug-faced little brats who wouldn't
play with her. She remembered falling asleep, her eyes
wet with tears, because of the way they'd treated her.
Well, if she hadn't hated them so, she might have stayed
in that awful town, as Agnes did.

Lily Trent smiled and told imaginary things about a
pleasant little-girl life in a small town.

“And when you left school you came to New York and
got on the stage.” prompted Miss Biddle. “You must have
been ambitious right from the start.”

Ambitious right from the start! That was good. She
hadn't thought of getting ahead. She hated everyone—
wanted to get even with the kids who had laughed at
her, or who hadn't noticed her at all.

She stopped school in eighth grade. She was a lanky
kid with straw-colored hair and light eyelashes. She spent
the next years mooning around. Dreaming about nothing.

130 *

Restless, Miserable. Unhappy. **Wanting out" And running
around with aU kinds of boys— though pa beat her when
she got in late.

“I had my dreams,” said Lily Trent, “but my parents
didn’t believe in careers for women. I wanted to do some-
thing— and 1 feel nothing can be accomplished widiout a
dream back of it.”

Miss Biddle sucked some more of tiie wrong color ofiF
her lips. This was the kind of thing her readers lovedi
“Did you have sweethearts when you were a girl?”

She'd had sweethearts. One, a shy kid, as pitiful and
wistful as she. She hadn't let herself care for him. She
wondered what had become of him. It wasn't untU she
met Don that she cared, really, for anyone. DonaW She
could still see him. Slim. Good-looking. His father was one
of the rich men of the town. Don picked her up in his
car. He seemed wonderful. He had been to college. He
knew all of the things she wanted to know.

She went driving with Don. She met him around the
comer, so pa wouldn't know. Pa distrusted every man with
money.

At first the drives were grand. She and Don away
from the world. The toind in their faces. And taUdng
about life.

Then Don wanted more than kisses. She knew too
much for that. Didn't she have Agnes for example? Don
didn't want marriage. Pa wouldn't have been able to force
him into it. She fought against Don, and he grew suUen.
And, in the room where Agnes had cried and asked God
what she was going to do, Lily cried because she didrCt
want to lose Don— and didn't know how to hold him.

Everything was against her. Other girls had nice homes.
There was noplace she could see Don but in his car— arid

131

then he wanted to make love. She didn't want anyone to
get the better of her.

And one night, when she went out to the car, there
sat Dons father instead. Sullen— like Don when he wasn't
getting his own way.

They drove down the streets where she and Don had
had such lovely rides. He offered her money to give up
Don!

"you are ruining his future," he said.

She didn't say that she knew she would have had to
give up Don anyhow. She wanted to laugh, to shriek, to
throw the money dramatically in his face.

She sat there, instead, huddled in the seat. Don teas
gone anyhow. Why not let his father pay? Pay because
she'd never had a chance with Don.

She left the car with five hundred dollars. She gave
some to Agnes. With the rest she came to New York.

"Yes, I had a first sweetheart.”

Lily Trent smiled at Miss Biddle. “But ambition and
young love don’t always go together. One must be sacrificed.
You might tell the girls all over America for me," she
laughed, “to think a long time before saying no to the
boy next door. A small town and the boy you love may
mean fewer heartbreaks. You know the old saying, *Home-
keeping hearts are happiest.’"

“Oh, yes!” Miss Biddle knew .she was getting lovely
material. “I know all your admirers are glad you didn’t
stay at home. And after you came to New York— what
happened then?”

Lily Trent, in her husky voice, told of the long hours
in theatrical offices. She gave more axioms of success.

“It was a long time before I got my .start," she said.
“I felt the tug of real poverty. T couldn’t ask my parents
for more money."

132

Damn rigjkt she couldn’tl Pa was still sore because she
left home. Ma never had a cent. It had taken her a long
time to get a start. New York wasn’t as easy a nut to crack
as she had hoped. Too many pretty girls were looking for
the same things. She could have known a hundred men
—cheap, all of them. She remembered Agnes. She wanted
to make something of herself now. She was as pretty and
as smart as other girls. And she didn’t want to have any-
thing to do with men who couldn’t help her— or might be
hard to get rid of later on.

The money went for cheap hut smart clothes, and for
the rather pathetic room, three flights up— narrow, cold.
Not that she had had much at home— but she wanted so
much more— in New York.

She met Adolph Hillman, the theatrical manager. A
silly old man with a big nose and folds under his chin.
His hands were gross. She could feel them, now, on her
shoulder. Could feel his fat lips against hers. Was it for this
she had turned away from Don? Well, Adolph Hillman
had more to offer.

Was it enough— fame and Hillman in exchange for
herself? She went over it a hundred times in that awful
little room. What else could she do?

In a way, it was amazing that she had this chance—
Hillman choosing her from all the girls he could have had.

She moved to an apartment Hillman picked out for her.
A gloomy place, too full of large, carved furniture; heavy
mirrors; brown uoodwork; a smell of decay.

What did it matter? When she was a success she could
get away from Adolph Hillman.

Lily didn’t know what would have happened if Fate
hadn’t stepped in. Like a corny melodrama.

She’d never forget that night. What if she told tlds
funny little rabbit-faced reporter about it?

133

Lightning quick, the events unwound themselves— like
a film turned too rapidly.

Adolph HiUman sent her to see one of his shows, met
her in the lobby afterward. They went to the gloomy
apartment. And he talked largely of what he’d do for her
—in exchange for what she could do for him. This hideous
old man! In what other way, without influence or back-
ground or talent, could she get ahead?

He kissed her. She tried to kiss him in return. Then he
started to make love to her. And he was too old.

Lily struggled against him. And suddenly he sat back
in his chair. His face grew pale and he began to gasp
for breath. She ran to get him a glass of water.

He pushed her away when she brought it. His breath
was heavier, labored.

A white froth on his lips changed to rtist color, and he
fought for air as if he were drowning.

He was quiet, then, and his chin dropped. And his
eyes were suddenly sunken, as if he were wearing a 7nask.
Lily didn’t need anyone to tell her that he was dead.

Alone in the apartment with Adolph Hillman, living,
was one thing. It was another thing, alone with Adolph
Hillman, dead. For an awful moment she had the feeling
that she had killed him. Then she got hold of herself.

She knew he had a fat wife and three homely daughters
in New Rochelle. She couldn’t call them. She knew it was
too late to call a doctor.

She telephoned wildly. To his office. Sometimes his
secretary stayed late. There was no answer. She tried to
get his brother. He was not home! She tried clubs, res-
taurants. She tried to locate intimate business associates.
She couldn’t stay with a dead man! There must he some-
one!

She telephoned his brother’s home every five minutes.
Finally he answered. She could hardly speak. She choked

134

out something. In fifteen minutes the brother and a friend
of his were there.

She told them what had happened. The other man got
something for her to drink.

Lily knew uihat was going on— but it was more as if
she were seeing a play. The men held the old man between
them, a saving figure who was to pass for drunk if any-
one saw them. They went out to the waiting air. Lily
wondered how many other men were not aUowed the peace
of growing cold where they died.

The next day Adolph HidmarCs death was in dd the
newspapers. He had spent the evening at his theater and
then had gone to his brothe/s home. His death had
been instantaneous. Heart trouble.

Joe Hillman gave Lily a part in a play. Not as good
as Adolph had promised her, but better than swinging
her heels in an agents office, or her purse on Sixth Avenue.
A first step up.

She smiled brightly at Miss Biddle.

^t was diroiigh dear old Adolph Hillman that I got
my start,” she said. “He was my first real friend in New
York. I owe so much to that dead, generous soul who
helped so many ambitious girls. His death was a permanent
blow to the American stage. After that, other roles came.
Small at first. Long hours of rehearsal—”

She talked prettily of those first* difficult years.

The breakfast things came in. Lilv Trent as always,
was a gracious hostess. She pressed food on Miss Biddle,
who ate greedily, not noticing that Miss Trent only nibbled
at a muffin. Between bites Miss Biddle pursued her ques*
tions;

“Didn’t you marry Richard Trimmer then? Tell me about
that romance.”

“I admired him from the first time I saw him,” said

135 *

Lily Trent. “T was so flattered because he noticed me.
He was years older. I’ve always liked older men. He was
such a dear.”

“But you separated?”

Lily Trent opened her eyes very wide. "When two
people are no longer in love I think it is a sin for them
to stay together. I think the marriag ■ vows should read,
Till the death of love us do part.’ I re^ lly do.”

I

She really never laced Trimmer. He was producing a
play which interested her, though nearly any play inter-
ested her then. A pompous gray-haired man who bored
her with his long dissertations. But she learned from him.
Art. Music. The theater. Food and wine. People. She had
learned nothing from Hillman, who was vastly ignorant
under a thin coating of theater.

Trimmer was a man of the world. She was lucky.
Hillman had been old and foolish— and she was very young.
Trimmer gave her a new estimation of herself.

She had done nothing to attract Hillman. To attract
Rick Trimmer she had used all of her knowledge of women
—and men. A hundred tricks.

She was no longer for sale for a role. Other women
demanded matrimony. Why not Lily Trent?

There was one obstacle. Trimmer was married to
Lucinda Ray. Lucinda Ray was no longer pretty or young.

Lily Trent was the only one .surprised when Rick Trim-
mer married her. To the others in the theater it was the
usual thing. A producer falls in love with an ingenue, gets
his wife to divorce him. It was as simple as that.

She forged ahead. To leads. She was pretty, young.
She became popular. She studied English, music, French,
German. She and Rick went to Europe, .spending the days
as well as the nights on her education.

It was too had that Rick was unlucky in the theater,

136

and that he started to dnnk. And drinking made him
unpleasant. She remembered the horrible brawls. You
couldn't expect a girl like Lily Trent to stay with a man
who drank all the time— and who couldn’t even support
her. Especially when she found she could get along on
her own.

"Outside of the pain of parting, I shall always rememb^
most pleasantly my years with Richard Trimmer,” she tdW
Miss Biddle.

“It was after your divorce that you made your Holly-
wood success?”

Lily Trent nodded, and told gay little things about
her beginnings in Hollywood, that mythical and amusing
wonderland.

“Hollywood has been greatly maligned,” she said. "It
is really just a small town full of dear, understanding
people as well as the more colorful and spectacular ones.
My friends are really stay-at-homes. We have little dinner
parties, go to bed early.”

“I know,” said Miss Biddle— who felt she knew. "But
weren’t there any men you cared about then?”

“There were men I liked and admired,” said Lily Trent.
But you know how the world misinterprets a star's
slightest move. Have dinner with a man a couple of times
and your name is linked with his. I like to feel I have real
men friends in Hollywood.”

Friends! Lee Dorset teho took her to Hollywood, and
u'ho was all business— even in love-making and poker-
playing. She learned hardne.ss from Lee— if she needed
hardness. Well, she gave Lee as much as .she got from him.
The stage hadn’t offered her anything that year and Lee
had offered a great deal. She made good in Hollywood.

She grew tired of Lee, just as he grew tired of her.

137

Funny, when they met now, they were—friends. They could
talk of the newest mode, the newest scandal, wtth never
a tremor of emotion.

Other men, too, interested her. And then bored her—
or were no longer of any help. How horrified the little
rabbit across the table would be if she told her of some
of the things that had happened. The scene with Drew
Colby when they quarreled and threw whole set of dishes
at each other, one dish at a time, and in the end stood
bloody but unbowed, knee-deep in broken crockery. And
Treve Martin, with his spells of depression and insight—
and his unreality. She didn’t know for a long time that
it was a drug that stimulated Martin. He was dead now.
She was glad to remember that his last months had been
peaceful.

The telephone bit in. Sally Mason answered it from an
extension in another room, while Lily pressed her hands
together until the knuckles were white— and pretended she
was not waiting.

‘Tt was nothing,” reported Sally.

"Your marriage to Wayne Andrews,” said Miss Biddle.
"Are— are you happy together?”

“Why, yes.” Lily Trent laughed. “If anyone is really
happy who has an adult mind. In many ways it is a
beautiful marriage.”

A beautiful marriage! Wouldn’t Wayne laugh at that!
He’d see the story the rabbit would write. He always read
the fan magazines, looking for things about himself.

She remembered the first time she saw Wayne. She
was wearing an empress’s robe, and he was a Roman
slave. He gave the obvious quotation when they met—
and he had seen to it that they met. He was an extra
player then.

1.38

How young he seemed, and careless and gay. She did
not learn for a long time that, thou^ his youth was real,
the carelessness and gaiety were as much a part of his
pose as his calmness.

She liked him from the first. He had seen to that,
too. It wasn’t until later that she fell in love with him.
So fully, so deeply in love that the thought of it, even now,
made her tremble. She was no longer young. She should
have known better.

She hadn’t known better. With Wayne she forgot all
she had Ikarned—from Agnes, from Rick, from Lee.

Wayne had married a little nobody when he was twenty-
one and singing in cheap night clubs He got a divorce.
Those who knew about it blamed her— though the marriage
was broken before she met Wayne. Luckily, no one remem-
bered that, years before, Rick Trimmer had got a divorce
in order to marry her.

Wayne was the person she had been years before! He
wanted to get ahead. He saw in her the person who could
help him. Lily was a star, and Wayne was a young and
handsome extra man with his own future to look out for.
Just as Lily Trent had had her own future.

The little nobody he divorced acted very badly and
gave out all sorts of ugly publicity— though she’d never even
had her name in the newspapers before!

Lily and Wayne were married. Lily never even thought
this marriage over, the way she had thought things out
before. To her it was beautiful that Wayne loved her,
wanted to marry her. It seemed the fruition of all she
had worked for.

She built a larger home in Beverly Hills. There was a
specially designed swimming pool. Tennis courts. Servants
enough to run things properly. And into this stepped Wayne
Andrews, erstwhile of cheap roominghouses, of small-time

130 •

nigfa clubs and extra parts, mostly in Westerns. And Lily
smiled happily because he consented to step in.

She was so happy those first years! She still could
hardly think about it.

Wayne got ahead, as he had planned. First, as her
leading man, when her public wanted to see them together.
Then, as she edged into young-matt nn and young-mother
roles, Wayne became a star in his own right.

Lily couldn’t remember when she first learned that
Wayne was untrue to her.

Lily Trent saved face, pretended she didn’t know. May-
be everything would come out all right. She loved Wayne,
didn’t want to lose him altogether.

Wayne was still young— and he wanted to be free. She,
Lily Trent, idol of thousands of movie fans, groveled in
her attempts to hold him.

“The rumors about you and Mr. Andrews aren’t true,
then?" pursued Miss Biddle. “You aren't planning a separa-
tion? You aren’t interested in anyone else?”

“I’m sure I can never care for anyone else again,”
Lily Trent said. “You might say that Mr. Andrews and I
each need a certain amount of freedom. But, in our own
way, we are happy together. I live so fully, you know”—
Lily Trent laughed— “with iny Hollywood home, my chari-
ties, my dear friends.”

“You're going to stay in pictures?”

“Until my public grows tired of me,” Lily Trent said.
“I hope, at the first indication. I’ll know enough to retire
gracefully.”

“That won’t be for a long, long time,” Alberta Biddle
said.

Lily Trent rose, with the sweetest smile in the world.

“It was good of you to come,” she said. "You are one
of the few to whom I can reveal a little of my real self.”

140

En route to her dull little apartment. Miss Biddle
planned a new lead. Miss Trent had been far too wonder-
ful for her to use that first stupid beginning. . . .

“The telephone rang while the white rabbit was here.
Was it about the contract?” Lily Trent asked.

Sally shook her head.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t take up tbe
option,” Lily said. "The picture is the only one they're
planning that I could possibly be in. That wasn’t Wayne
who telephoned?”

“Of course not.” Sally Mason’s voice was sympathetic.
“It was about evening gowns. Try to get some rest. I’ll
call you if anyone rings about the option— or if Mr.
Andrews calls.”

Suddenly Lily Trent slumped down at the table. She
hid her face in her hands, so even Sally Mason couldn’t
see that she looked suddenly old.

“Get me some Scotch, like a good girl, Sally,” she said.
"I need it awfully. I haven’t had a single i'op today.”

Then, as Sally Mason went out, Lily Trent plagiarized
her sister Agnes.

“Oh, God!” she cried. “What am I going to do?”

141

OBSESSION

H e never knew when it started. And
certainly not how or why. One day
he was calm. Well-adjusted. Devoted
to his wife and his home. And the next thing he knew,
he was in love with Shirley Clarke. It was as sudden as
that.

All his life he had heard of men who fell in love with
their stenographers. Married men who had affairs on the
side. Or broke up their homes because of office amours.
From his well-regulated and rather dignified life he had
looked down on them as creatures from another world.

He was a quiet man, and conservative. And he was
forty-four years old. His hair was still abimdant, but it
had thinned and receded a trifle at the hairline. His aqui-
line nose had thinned just a little, but his chin was strong
and his throat line was firm, his profile good. He spent at
least two and sometimes three of his lunch hours at a near-
by athletic club, playing handball or doing fairly strenuous
exercises, followed by a quick massage, and in summer he
played golf and tennis. His stomach was flat and muscular.
He always looked slim and well-groomed and fit.

He was not a conceited man, but he was proud of die
progress he had made. Starting with nothing when he
left college, he’d worked up to executive manager of one
of the more important divisions of his firm, of which he
was one of the vice-presidents. He worked hard, and his

143

work was important to him. He felt that, in time, he would
go even farther.

He had met Laura Martin when he was twenty-five
and she was nineteen. It was love at first sight with him.
Not tumultuous, exciting, unsettling love, but a calmer
and, he had felt, finer affection. She had loved him, too,
and her love, too, had been fine and deep and calm.

He was getting along very nicel^r then, so they had
lived well from the start of their marned life. Nothing to
the way they lived now, of course, but Laura never had
had to endure hardships or make sacrifices. Clint always
had been glad of that, for Laura was accustomed to nice
living. Her family was richer than his. She had been raised
surrounded with every luxury.

Their life together had been pleasant, though not expe-
cially eventful, which was the way Clint had wanted it.
In summer they lived in a house in Connecticut, which
Laura’s aunt had left them, but which they had had done
over completely. A dignified house on the water’s edge,
with smooth and well-kept grounds. In winter they lived
in a rather too-large apartment on Park Avenue. Among
Laura’s many good traits was the ability to keep servants.
The old couple who lived in the house in Connecticut
kept the place all ready for them, in case they wanted to
run up for winter weekends. The servants in town were
equally satisfactory, though now Laura thought only two
were necessary. Helen, who had been with them for years,
did the cooking and took care of the kitchen and dining
room, and Flossie, pretty and a bit impudent, did every-
thing else, save for a visiting laundress and a man who
came in once a week for general cleaning.

Clint and Laura entertained with pleasant little dinners.
They went with a quiet crowd, who felt above cafe society
and seldom visited night clubs. They never went to first
nights at the theater, but waited until a play was a decided

success before attending, buying seats from speculaton
a few days in advance. Their best parties were diose that
included the Gilfants— Mr. Cilfant was die president of
Clint s firm— but the others were successful, too. They went
to Europe on pleasant holidays, or contented themselves
with the house in the country and the apartment in town.

Clint Palmer had been too old for the second world
war, but he had made up for that by spending time on war
loan drives. He’d given blood to the Red Cross. And he’d
been to Washington half a dozen times on conferences
concerning his particular industry.

Yes, life had been pleasant, smooth, regular. Laura was
nice to be with. Good company. Laughing at the right
things. Always well-groomed and as intent on keeping fit
as he was. Interested in half a dozen pursuits of her own
and yet interested in him, too. She played a good game
of bridge. Read the most discussed books. 'The weekly
news magazines and the more conservative columnists.
Kept up with things. Clint had believed that he was still
in love with Laura. He hadn’t even thought of looking
at another woman, save with impersonal and disinterested
attention. Why, he was satisfied. Settled.

And then he fell in love with Shirley Clarke.

It wasn’t Shirley Clarke’s fault. He had to admit diat.
She did absolutely nothing about it. She won him neither
by encouragement nor by pretended indifference and coy-
ness.

She must have been pleased, in the beginning, to find
that a man of Clint’s standing paid any attention to her.
She certainly never tried even to attract his attention.
She had taken his interest, which she couldn’t help but
see, in her stride, and at first, with a sort of amused
curiosity.

She wasn't even a beautiful girl. Or especially attrac-

•145

tive or talented. That was die funny part of it. Through
die years, Gilfant & Falconer had had dozens of stenog-
raphers who were prettier and bri^ter, and Clint Palmer
had paid absolutely no attention to them. Shirley Clarke
was small and slender, with a tumed-up nose and quanti-
ties of blonde hair, which she didn’t wear quite so primly
as usually is prescribed for secretaries. Her clodies were
discreet and inexpensive. Little ready -piade tailored num-
bers, and funny little hats that looked like felt cups with
bits of ornament fastened on the side. Just a stenographer!

Clint’s own private secretary, a tall and correct woman.
Miss Batson, who had left him unmoved and sli^dy
annoyed by her elegance for years, was ill with influenza,
and he had telephoned to die front office for a substitute.

Shirley Clarke appeared. In a blue skirt and a plaid
blouse that was too bright for her piquant face.

“You sent for me?” she asked. It was a question, but
Clint noticed that most of her statements rose at the end,
as if tiiey, too, were questions.

“Yes. Sit down, please,” he said. And she sat down.
And was very quiet, notebook in hand, while she waited.

It happened almost immediately. Almost at that very
moment, though Clint didn’t recognize it. He had a curious
feeling of knowing this girl very well. And then a feeling
of not knowing her at all, not so much as you know even
casual acquaintances. What made her tick? What was she
thinking about? What was she doing here? Where did she
live when she went away?

“Are you new here?” he asked.

“I’ve been around a couple of months. In the front
office?” Her voice went up into a question. But surely she
wasn’t asking a question. She knew she was in the front
office. Two months. And he’d never seen her. Or felt her
presence.

140

*Like it here?” He had to ask somediing.

"It’s all right. My third job?” Again the question. Wdl,
she ought to know if it was or not

“What became of the other two?” Anything to keep
her talking.

“The first one, a man was unpleasant and the hours
were too long.”

Poor little thingl Fighting against the world. He'd never
felt any special sympathy for working girls.

“I see,” he said. And then, “I’m glad you’re with us.
Miss, uh— ”

“Clarke,” she said. “Shirley Clarke. That name will date
me, one of these days. A lot of Shirleys bom around that
time.”

“Shirley Temple is still young, so you don’t have to
worry.”

“Oh, yes. Shirley Temple?” As if she weren’t sure of
the name. He noticed that her voice was husky and won>
dered if she had a cold or if it was natural. He found
out, later, that she always talked that way.

He dictated then, and she wrote smoothly, without ask-
ing unnecessary questions. Later, when she brought in the
finished letters, he found they were neither better nor
worse than average. A few errors. No serious ones. And
neat typing. He looked at the letters for a long time.
Just think— she’d hit the keys over and over again. For
all those words! He’d never thought of diat before.

He found himself making half a dozen unnecessary
trips into the general office. Her desk was at one side.
Not too near the window. And she was working intently,
watching her machine, and picking away like mad. Poor
little kid!

He was glad when Miss Batson’s influenza lingered.

He watched for Shirley Clarke. 'Thought up a dozen
e.\tra letters during the day, so he could send for her. She

147

wore short skirts and sort of flipped diem when she walked.
Her legs were good and her heels high. Funny, after all
this time, he had no idea what kind of legs Miss Batson
had, though, being male, he was sure she'd tried in a
dozen small ways to attract him.

Now all he wanted was to watch Shirley Clarke. To
make her talk. To listen to the sentences that ended with
a question mark. To watch the curve of her cheek.

“I’ve got it badl” he told himself. And sort of smiled
about it. It wasn’t like him. And yet at first it was only
mildly exciting and vaguely disturbing.

He couldn’t have Batson back! Batson, so tall and
sleek. He loathed herl Though he knew, to do her justice,
he’d never felt the loathing before.

He had to have Shirley Clarke as his secretary. Safe,
there, in his outer office. Where he could be near her all
day long. The door open between them. She’d never know
he always had insisted that Miss Batson keep the door
closed.

Luckily for him, some important work came up and
they were in the midst of it when Miss Batson telephoned
that she’d be back on Monday.

He asked Miss Bliss, the office manager, to come in to
see him. “I mu.st keep Miss Clarke,” he told her. "I’m in
the middle of a difficult deal and it would take too long to
explain details to anyone else.”

“But Miss Batson always has handled your affairs.
Wouldn’t she—”

“She’s very good,” he said truthfully. "But Miss Clarke
has taken hold very well.”

“But Miss Clarke is very young. ’There are a number
of girls who should get the raise first. She’s never even
been a private secretary. I just sent her in because we
were busy. I was a little worried about sending her to you.”

• 148 *

“Well, she is working out very well. I’ve decided to keep
her.”

“But Miss Batson— I don’t know what to tell her.”

“Send her in to Mr. McWilliams. He’s always said he
envied me Miss Batson. It will be a raise for her. He’ll
make her his assistant. She’s quite capable of working
independently on the work she’d have to do there.”

“That’s an idea,” said Miss Bliss.

“It’s what I had in mind, actually,” he said. And didn’t
even care when Miss Bliss looked at him intently.

He had an excited, boyish feeling that he hadn’t had
in years and years. A day-before-Christmas feeling. Some-
thing wonderful happening. He had to bite his lip to keep
from smiling. Shirley Clarke in his office. Where he could
see her all the time.

Shirley seemed neither surprised nor pleased at the
change. Maybe she didn’t realize what a promotion it was
for her. From a beginner in the outer office to her own
office, and private secretary to a vice-president.

“Miss Bliss says I’m to work just for you?” she asked.

‘That’s right. They’re making a few changes, and I sug-
gested that, as long as you’d started with me—”

"She said I’m to stay right in here?”

“That’s right. That’s your desk. In there. And when I
ring—” He explained the interoffice signals.

And there she was. Where he could see her any time
he wanted to, just by shifting his chair a little. Where he
could call her and bring her close to Jus side by pressing
a button.

It was all he wanted. For a while, anyhow.

Laura noticed a change in him. "Working hard?” she
asked.

“Moderately hard. Why?”

• 149 *

“You’re nervous. Jumpy. Sort of absent-minded, as if you
were someplace else most of the time.”

He was someplace else. In the office! In his mind he
was watching a little girl with blonde hair and a tumed-
up nose.

“You know how they pile work on us these days,” he
said. And tried to relax. And pay more attention to what
Laura was saying to him.

He couldn’t think of anyone but Shirley. He wasted
hours watching her. He wondered if anyone at the office
noticed anything. Yet he didn’t do anything, actually. Noth-
ing anyone could see, certainly.

It was an obsession. That’s all there was to it. He’d
heard about men falling in love with their secretaries and
thought that the men were simple-hearted fools, who, after
long hours of close companionship, had been vamped by
die girls who worked for them. Now he found himself
moudiing all the cliches he had despised. It is possible to
love two women! He still loved Laura. But it was Shirley
who needed him.

Shirley didn’t need him, and he knew it. She seemed
hardly aware of his existence. Maybe she thought of him
as an old— well, anyhow, a middle-aged man. Maybe she
didn’t think of him at all. Actually he knew nothing of her
home life. She might have a boy-friend. Or be married.

“Are you married?” he asked her, as casually as he
could, as soon as he thought of that terrible possibility,

“No, I’m not married. \^y?”

“I like to know about my secretaries.”

“I’m not married?” she repeated. It was almost a ques-
tion (his time.

He wanted to hold her tight in his arms, bury his face
in her hair. He knew how ridiculous he was. How disloyal
to Laura. Oh, well, after all, he wasn’t doing anything about
it.

150 *

But there she was. Where he could see Im.

He was glad when he found diat she had been given
a raise. He inquired about Miss Batson, and found that she
was getting along very well indeed. He had to force him-
self to do most of the things he formerly had done almost
without thinking. The things people classified as thou^tful.
Flowers for Laura. Presents on anniversaries. He and Laura
seemed to celebrate dozens of them.

He had to remember to be pleasant to people. And to
keep his mind on a bridge game. To talk entertainingly—
or at least listen attentively— when he was with Laura or
when they were at those once so pleasant little dinner
parties. He even had a hard time keeping his mind on a
play.

He was completely bewitched. And he didn’t know
what to do about it. Nor did he want to do anything.

Sentimental songs began to have a new meaning. He
found himself looking through old books of poems he hadn’t
glanced at in years. Romantic poems of another generation.
Why, Shirley wouldn’t understand them if he read them to
her, though he had no intention of reading them to any-
one. He bathed in their sentimentality, more vapidly th^
any schoolboy.

In business conferences he would find himself smiling
vacantly, and realize he had been thinking about Shirley
and had lost the thread of the discussion. He would shake
his head, as if to dislodge her image from his brain. And
he’d feel that it was more than his imagination that some
of the men were looking at him curiously. How much did
they know? Or imagine? He’d have to do something about
it! But he did nothing at all.

When some unexpected work came up and he had to
put in extra hours, he was delisted.

"1 won’t be home to dinner,” he told Laura, and had
to be careful to keep the joy out of his voice. Let her ask

151 •

the Gilfants! She’d find out soon enough that he really did
have to work. He was like a boy let out of school— and
Laura was his teacher. A kindly teacher, but one from
whom it was a pleasure to escape.

"I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to work tonight,” he
said to Shirley, and watched her face, to try to see whether
disappointment at breaking an engagement or perhaps
pleasure were there. He saw no ecpression at all.

“Yes?” she said. And that was ah

Everyone left the office around five. It grew dark.
Shirley turned on the lights. Was it his imagination that
she seemed pale? Perhaps he shouldn’t allow her to work
these long hours! He hadn’t thought of that.

At seven they were nearly finished.

“Are you starved?” he asked.

“Hungry? Yes?”

“I should have thought of that hours ago. We’ll run
down and get a bite and come up and finish in no time
at all.”

“Wouldn’t you rather finish now?”

“And have you fainting on my hands? No, we’ll eat first."

He had been planning on that. Of course.

He chose the most expensive restaurant in the neighbor-
hood. It was a quiet place. Discreet. With no music. But
the food was excellent.

It was a new pleasure, seeing her across a restaurant
table. She looked so small. And sweet.

"What aboiit a cocktail?” he asked. “A very dry Martini?”

She nodded. And he didn’t know if that meant she
really wanted one and was accustomed to Martinis or was
just accepting the drink politely because he had asked her.

When the cocktails arrived, she drank hers slowly, but
she didn’t make a face over it, so she must have been
accustomed to them. Why, she wasn’t a childl Why was

152

he always thinking of her as an infant? She was used to
cocktails. She got around.

“What will it be?” he asked when she held a menu.
When she hesitated, he said, “HI order if you like,” as
eagerly as a boy. He felt a desire to show off, to exhibit
his knowledge of food.

“Fine,” she said. And he felt that she almost omitted
the usual question mark.

She wasn't an especially adroit conversationalist. He
missed Laura’s parrying with words, the pseudo cleverness
of his friends. Shirley evidently said what she thought, and
her thoughts were clear and without depth or subtlety.

“She isn’t sophisticated!” he told himself, as if this gave
her a new charm.

The dinner was as good as he had hoped it would be.
She ate with the relish of a child, but he thought that
was more because she was hungry than because of any real
appreciation of the food. She ate quickly, and her table
manners were dainty, though he wished he could take his
hands, and, holding them over hers, push the knife and
fork into place. She grasped the fork too near the tines,
the knife almost at the blade. It seemed childish, rather
than an indication of bad manners.

Neither of them cared for dessert. Or at least Shirley
said she didn’t, and he scarcely ever took a sweet. After
dinner was over and he’d paid the bill, he felt a new
possession of her, as if tin's breaking of bread had formed
a further intimacy.

Back in the office, they were in a world of their own.
It rcijuired all his strength to keep from taking her in his
arms. Not that he had any moral qualms about it. He was
afraid of frightening her. Of dri\’ing her away from him.
lie couldn’t do that! “Not yet,” he told himself. As if that
meant that one day—

They finished the work in no time at all. And went

153 *

down in the elevator together. He thought the night opera-
tor eyed him curiously.

“Ill take you home,” he said.

“Nonsensel” she told him. “I'm often out alone later
dian this.”

He didn’t like to think of her being out alonet “Where
do you live?” he asked.

"Way out. Near Jamaica.”

He couldn’t find an excuse, even ^o himself, to drive
out there. Not yet! Again, to himself, that insistence that
more was just ahead.

He called a taxicab, pressed a bill into her hand. “Don't
try to be on time in the morning,” he said. “I won’t be.”

All night he tossed. Thinking of her.

“Eat your breakfast,” Laura said. “You’re staring at your
plate as if you saw visions there. Isn’t it all ri^t?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said. “And you’re a lamb. I’ve
bera working hard. And my eyes are tired. What about
going to the theatre tonight? That ought to rest them.”

They usually went to the theatre after more careful
planningi

“We’re going to the Wilsons for bridge and dinner.
Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I do! When I’m working—”

“You won’t have to work tonight?”

“Heavens, no! Not for weeks, probably.”

Not for weeks. 'That was true. Unless he could think
of something.

Shirley was at work by the time he got there. He
nodded crisply, every inch the executive.

“You got home all right, I see.”

“Fine. I put the change on your desk.”

"You ouglitn’t to have done that."

“Oh, I tipped the cab driver. 'This was left over.”

•154

She really was naive! He wanted to stay and talk with
her. Forced himself to go on into his own office.

Only a week later he thought up the idea about the
theater tickets.

"Look,” he said. “I’ve t^o tickets to “Little Lady.' Td
expecth^ to take a client, h|j^t he won’t be in town. Could
you go with me?”

She hesitated until he felt himself growing nervous.
"Why,* yes,” she said finally. “I’ve wanted to see that show,
but it would be ages before I could get tickets for it.
I’d— I’d love to go.”

He told Laura he had a business engagement.

This time he took Shirley to a gayer restaurant. And
insisted that she order. She chose roast beef with “I don’t
get much meat these days” as a reasonable explanation.

He had seen the play, but he didn’t think it was
necessary to tell her. She laughed at the brightest quips.
And he hoped she saw that having an affair of die heart
didn’t actually harm a girl. But was that what he wanted
her to believe? Did he want an affair? He didn’t know what
he did want, except to have her beside him.

In the lobby they talked over the play. And he was glad
to notice that she kept her husky voice very low.

Afterward he took her to the Stork. And enjoyed jioint-
ing out a few celebrities. He asked her to daace«and, for
the first time, held her in his arms. 'How little* she wasl
He hoped she thought he danced wd|l.

He knew he was a fool. But af^er all, y^u live only
once. He was- well, in his forties. And it stifled to him,
now, that he had wasted too many of his yeai^.

This time;^ . there was no question about his escorting
her home.\ ‘

“It’s very late. Will your parents be angry?”

"They may not even hear me. I^ve a key.”

In the taxicab he drew her to him, and they .sat with

his arm around her. What would a young boy who took
her out do? He didn’t want to be too forward. Frighten
her. And yet, a younger man—

She lived in the third of a row of houses that were all
alike. There was a light in the hall.

“They always leave that for me,” she said.

He got out of the taxicab, helped her alight, followed
her' to the doorway. He took her in his arms.

She wasn’t coy. She raised her mouth for his kiss.

How sweet she wasl How very dear! Why, she was in
his arms! He was kissing her! His girl.

Suddenly he felt very young. And almost frightened.
And very happy.

"You— you darling!” he said. And held her close.

And finally he was in the taxicab again. And trembling.

This wasn’t possible! This wasn’t he, Clint Palmer. Con-
servative. Settled. What was he doing with his life? He
closed his mind against it. He didn’t want to know.

But he knew one thing. It was no problem at all to get
away from home. To say you had a business engagement.
To play hookey from school.

Three weeks later, with two more dinner-theater-night-
club engagements behind him, he found that he had to
go to Wa.shington for two days. He never had taken a
secretary, but the work was heavy enough to demand one.

"I think I’ll take Miss Clarke,” he said. “Then I’ll be
free from details.”

No one argued with him. He wondered if anyone sus-
pected anything. Or how much. Certainly they wouldn’t
question him. Did they whisper behind his back? He found
himself shaking his head, as if to throw off the thought of it.

“We’re going to Washington,” he told her, as casually
as he could. And let her make the arrangements, so she
would know it was a legitimate business trip.

150 *

The day of the trip they both went to the office. There
were a dozen details to arrange before traintime.

He wondered what the other passengers thought. Did
people think they were married? Or, by some horrible
chance, that she was his daughter? Or that they were
lovers?

Their rooms, at the hotel where his firm always took
accommodations, were on the same floor but not adjoining.
They went to their rooms, freshened up. Went at once to
a long business conference. Clint was glad when he saw
that two other secretaries were present.

He had dinner with a business acquaintance, didn’t get
back to the hotel until late. And was furious at himself
because this had had to happen. He had visualized the
evening with Shirley.

He called her on the house telephone. "May I come in
and say good-night?” he a.sked.

“Why—” she hesitated— “why, yes.”

She had on a long-.sleeved, green negligee. Somehow,
lie was glad she seemed surprised that he had called.

“I’m sorry about this evening,” he said. "I wanted to
have dinner with you.”

“I knew you were tied up,” she said. "After all, that’s
what you came here for, wasn’t it? I got some magazines.
I didn’t want to go to a movie alone in a strange town.”

He gathered her in his arms. To his amazement he found
that he was trembling. And more bashful than any school-
boy.

This couldn’t go on! He told himself that, after he was
back in New York. Seeing Shirley on the sly. 'Thinking
about her. Why, he wasn’t himself! It was ridiculous. If
anyone had told him a year ago, six months ago, that he’d
be such a sap! Yet here he was. But he couldn’t keep it up.
Ilis life was all in bits. Like a carefully put together picture
puzzle that a child sweeps onto the floor.

157

What could he do? He asked himself that a hundred
times a day. In the office. At home. Walking on the street.

Laura no longer asked him what was wrong. But she
looked at him the way someone looks at you if you are ill.

And then one morning Shirley didn’t come to workl

The office was as lonely as if everyone in the place
were away. He needed a stenographer, but he hesitated
to ask Miss Bliss to send someone.

Was she ill? Funny she didn’t telephone. He asked the
operator, who eouldn’t find the number he wanted.

It was Miss Bliss who finally came to him. “You need
a new secretary, I see,” she said.

He waited. He didn’t want to say anything, though he
wanted to ask if Shirley had telephoned. If she were ill—

“There’s Miss Baker, who used to be in Mr. Kelland’s
office. She’s a very nice girl. Shall I send her in?”

“Yes, if you like.”

He waited. Miss Bliss waited.

She didn’t say anything else about the one thing in
which he was interested until she was standing up, ready
to leave.

‘Were you surprised to lose Miss Clarke?” she asked.

“Why— why, yes.”

“She certainly didn’t give adequate notice that she was
quitting. Those girls are all alike. You give them an oppor-
tunity and they don’t appreciate it.”

“I know,” he said. And hoped he nodded with the
proper degree of dignity.

After she left he sat down, heavily, at his desk. And
he felt like an old man. Shirley had left without even
telling him. She was gone.

Miss Baker, the new secretary, came in, and he spoke
pleasantly enough to her. “I’ll do some dictating later,” he

158

said. *1’11 buzz when I want you. I like to keep die door
closed between our two offices.”

She was a colorless girl, with sandy hair. Tall and
awkward-looking. Undoubtedly an excellent secretary. All
the girls Miss Bliss hired were excellent secretaries.

He never knew how the day passed. He remembered,
vaguely, going to lunch. And even dictating to Miss Baker.

He telephoned Laura. “I won’t be home to dinner,” he
said.

“A business date, I suppose?” Was there sarcasm in
her voice?

"Why, yes. Of course. Don’t— don’t wait up for me.”

“I shan’t. Not if you’re late.”

Finally the business day was over. He had forced him-
self to stay at his desk.

He got into a taxicab. Found that he was sitting tense,
unable to relax.

This would have to stop! He’d have to come to some
decision. Marry Shirley? And give up Laura forever? Even
that, if he had to do it.

Did Shirley leave in order to force his hand? She didn’t
seem that sort. But you never know about girls. He didn’t
understand her at all. He knew that. Now, Laura was
understandable. But Shirley— you never knew where you
were with her. Or what she was thinking about. You held
her in your arms, and she was as great a puzzle as if
you’d never seen her. Oh, well! He’d find out now. She’d
have to put her cards on the table.

It was a long ride, out to Jamaica. It seemed much
longer now. And she’d taken this trip on the subway every
day. Maybe she was ill. Or too tired to work any more.
Yet she seemed strong enough.

He was there at last. He’d seen the house only late
at ni^t. He’d never been inside.

•159

He rang the bell. A pretty woman, too fat, but not old,
came to the door. Behind her was a thin man, nearly bald,
in his shirt sleeves.

He asked for Shirley. ^I’m her boss. At Gilfant & Fal-
coner. I'm—”

"Oh, of coursel I’m Shirley’s mother. Come right in."

Her father smiled. Said, “Take off your overcoat."

“Will Shirley be home soon?” he a'ked.

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Clarke said. And then: ’Well,
you might as well know. Shirley’s getting married. Tomor-
row.”

“Tomorrow!” He echoed the word.

“Yes. She said she didn’t want anyone at the office to
know. She doesn’t like to fuss over things. Bill’s got a
furlough. And then he’s going to Florida for special train-
ing. We’re pretty proud of him.”

She took a picture from a table, handed it to him.
A lean boy in uniform.

“Has she known him long?” he heard himself ask, as if
the words belonged to someone else.

“Oh, sure. For years. But she’s young. I wasn’t in any
hurry to have her get married. But now he comes back and
says if they get married she can go with him while he’s
taking special training. She can go to Florida. It will be
nice for Shirley. We’ve never been able to let her go any
place like that.”

“Is Shirley an only child?”

“Oh, no. Two brothers. Both in service. Didn’t she tell
you?”

“No, she doesn’t discuss her affairs much in the office.”

"I guess that’s right. She doesn’t bring office chatter
home, either. She’s an odd child. The last one at home.
We’ll miss her.”

"Yes, we’ll certainly miss her,” said Shirley’s father. “A
good girl. She didn’t go out much while Bill was away.

160

Nearly always around the house except the nights she
had to work.”

“We’ll miss her at the office, too,” said Clint, with, he
hoped, the right amount of politeness.

“Yes, I guess she was a real good worker,” said Mrs.
Clarke. “When that girl puts her mind to anything—”

He tried to say all the right things. And finally he
found himself outside.

It was over. Shirley was getting married. To a boy
named Bill he never had heard of. She never had loved
him at all! Nut that she ever had said she had.

He had dismissed the taxicab, and he didn’t know how
to find the subway. He walked to the comer.

There was a drugstore. He went in, called his home.

Flossie answered the telephone. “Mrs. Palmer is out,”
she said. “Yes, sir, she’ll be out for dinner. No, she didn’t
say what time she’d be back.”

Was there something odd about Flossie’s voice? Or was
he imagining things?

Where was Laura? Was she making engagements the
nights he wasn’t at home? Was there someone else— some-
one Laura cared about?

lie got a taxicab finally. And huddled into a comer of
it. And felt very old.

The picture puzzle really was knocked to pieces now.
And he didn’t much care if he could put the pieces together.
Shirley was gone. Forever. He knew that. But he never
had had her. lie had had, in a way, just a semblance of
a girl. A girl wlu>, he knew now, never had been herself
with him.

Had she used him as a stopgap, as someone to help
pass the time, while she waited for Bill? She never had
tried to appeal to him. He knew that. He had made all
the moves. And she never had cared. Not at all.

161

It was over. Shirley was gone. He told himself that a
thousand times before he reached home.

He let himself in with his key. The maids had gone out
or had gone to bed. No one had left a light in the hall for
him. He had to smile about that.

He turned on the lights in the living room. Played the
piano, which he did badly. Turned on the television first,
and then the radio. And tried to read.

It might be hours before Laura came home. And when
she did come—

Maybe Laura had someone else. Tlien he would have
no one at all. Not that he deserved anyone.

He felt completely empty, as if he’d had a major opera-
tion. And yet, in a way, he knew that Shirley— not the
real Shirley, probably, but the girl he had imagined— was
still with him. In a way, the obsession was still there.

How would Laura act? How would she treat him— if she
knew?

Suddenly he knew, and clearly, that his life, and his
life with Laura, depended on how she acted. Laura, who
always had been so fair. Fair, but cold, too. A dignified
and even beautiful coldness, not the warmth that a man
needs. That he needed now. And if Lama cared for some-
one else—

He tried to reconstruct Laura, the Laura of the past
few weeks. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t paid enough at-
tention to her. He’d been too busy with his own affairs.
Too wrapped up in himself.

He didn’t deserve Laura. Or Laura’s love— even the quiet
understanding she always had given him. But who wants,
ever, what he deserves? lie wanted more. So very much
more. He needed so much.

He threw himself on the couch. And tried to tliink. But
knew only that he was waiting. For Laura. Funny. When

162

all these weeks it had been Shirley. And now Shirley was
gone. And he was waiting.

He heard Laura’s key. He stood up. He wanted to rush
toward the door. But he waited, very quietly.

"Why, you’re homel” Laura said.

"I’ve been home for ages.”

"If I’d known! I could have been home before.”

No word of where she’d been.

She went toward him, and he was trembling.

‘Tou look tired,” she said. Her voice was gentle. "A
hard dayr

“A very hard day,” he said. And his voice broke. "Oh,
Laura, a very hard day!”

She looked at him. Now! He’d find out! For his whole
life. If it was over. If—

"Goodness!” she said. "You must have been through
things! \Vhat about a milk punch? That used to straighten
you out.”

"Fine! You’ll have one with me?”

"Sure. I guess I need one, too.”

"Shall I mix it?”

"You’re tired. You rest.”

He let her go into the kitchen. He felt numbed.

She was back in no time with two tall, foaming drinks.
They drank, then put their half-finished drinks on the table.

“That’s good,” he said. "I needed it. I’ve been through
a lot.”

“Have you?” asked Laura. She looked at him. Through
him. Laura wasn’t dumb. Laura knew.

"Oh, my dear!” he said and went to her. “I’ve been—
well, bewitched. Obsessed. I think that was it. I must have
been hard to put up with.”

"You have been rather a mess,” said Laura, and smiled.

"I’m back now. If youll have me. Not worth much.

163

maybe. But you know about salvaging. Maybe, with your
help, if you think I’m worth it, we can exorcise the evil.”

Now, if she only didn’t ask questions— if, by some mir>
acle, she understood.

"Didn’t you know,” said Laura, "that’s one of my spe-
cialties? Exorcising spirits. I’m afraid you don’t appreciate
all my talents.”

Why, this was Laura. 'The old Lami. Whom he loved.
If only—

She was in his arms. She was warm and friendly. More
than friendly. And not cold or dignified at all.

He held her close. Buried his head in her smooth, shin-
ing hair.

"My, but you smell nice!” he said. And meant a million
things more.

• 164 *

RUDOLPH

W HEN ALEX TELEPHONED that he’d bd

late for dinner Betty gave the chil-
dren their supper— diey had dieir
dinner at noon— bathed them, and put them to bed. She
knew Alex liked to play with them when he came home,
but they had been running out of doors all day, the month
was May, and they’d be pretty cross if they stayed up.

After she had tucked them in and kissed them good
night she finished getting dinner. She had sort of got into
the habit of having some of the same things the children
had at noon— without the custards and the purges. It’s
pretty hard, when you’re doing your own work, to get
dinner twice a day. The children couldn’t eat dinner at
night, and Alex couldn’t come home at noon. Even as it
was, the firm kept him pretty late once or twice a week.

She went into the bathroom to wash up a bit. She
thought that wives made an awful mistake letting them-
selves go and she always liked to put on fresh powder
and a bit of lipstick before Alex got in.

There, on the edge of the tub, sat a ghosti
Maybe if it hadn’t been a masculine ghost and she
hadn’t found it in the bathroom, she wouldn’t have been
so awfully embarrassed. But there it sat, apparently quite
at ease.

At first glance, when she turned on the light— it had
been early enough, when she bathed the children, so that

• 165 «

she hadn’t needed a light and there’d been no one in die
bathroom, then— she thought a thief had got in. She wanted
to scream, but something held her back— neither coward-
ice nor bravery— a desire not to wake the childien. When
you once get them to sleep—

It stood up— and she saw it wasn’t a diiefl It was
dressed fairly well, in a soft shirt and a dark, neat suit
and it was slim and not tall. And when she looked at
it steadily it had a sort of transparent quality. You couldn’t
exactly see through it, but it reminded Betty of a sort of
thick gelatin that hadn’t quite got firm. And there it
stood and sort of smiled.

“What— what do you want?” Betty asked. Her voice
wasn’t steady.

“I’m a ghost,” said the ghost, as if that explained
everything.

“I see you are,” said Betty. ‘What do you want here,
I mean?”

“I was sent here,” said the ghost.

“To— to haunt?” Betty asked.

The ghost nodded a bit sadly.

“You can’t haimt here,” Betty said. “My husband
wouldn’t like it. He— he doesn’t believe in ghosts. And
there are the children—”

“The children won’t mind,” the ghost said. “They never
do. I can’t help about your husband. He’ll get used to
me. I was sent here to haunt and here I stay.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong place,” said Betty. “This
is a new house. It’s only three years old. We bought it
the year Junior was bom. Don’t ghosts haimt old places?
You weren’t killed on the premises— while the house was
being built? They never told us anything.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t killed here. They just gave me this
house.”

“Who gave it to you?” Betty was getting a bit indignant.

166

"The union. It’s all divided up. Most of the ^osts
haunt in En^and and Ireland— and there’s quite a good
union in Italy. But I’m an American and we have to stay
in our own territory."

"But why do you have to haunt this little house? I
think it’s the silliest thingl”

"I don’t like it any too well myself," the ghost agreed.
"But times being what diey are, I took what I could get"
He sighed.

"But you don’t have to stay in die bathrooml"

"No, but it was nice and warm here. You had the
heater on and the rest of the house was sort of cold."

"Yes, it’s cool for May. The children’s room was warm
until after I got them in bed. 1 always open the windows,
then."

"I know. But I don’t come on until dark. Union hours.
I’m off at daybreak. I used to wait for cockcrow, but no
one around here keeps chickens.”

"It’s against the law,” Betty explained.

"I know. I used to live in the suburbs myself. We had
some of the best times—”

"I’m afraid I haven’t time to listen,” said Betty. "You’ll
have to excuse me. My husband will be home any minute.
Do you know Mr. Redmond? He’s very conventional. Too
conventional for his own comfort, I sometimes think. And
if he finds you here in the bathroom with me. Heaven
knows what he’ll think.”

"I’ll go in the other room,” the ghost said, politely.
“I’ll be in the living room.” He oozed over to the door.

"Do you have to stay long?” Betty asked.

“Until they get me another place. Most likely all
summer."

“You can’t do thatl” said Betty. "What would die
neighbors sayl We’re just getting in with some of the
nicest people."

167

"Maybe you could persuade them it was stylish," the
ghost offered. “It is, in England. A castle that’s properly
haunted is worth a lot of money. And I do a really first-
class piece of work. Always on the job. No fadeaways
when you’re looking for me.” He was eager, now.

“No,” said Betty. “It will never do. Mrs. Stook, she’s
the leader of things around here and she only thinks things
are stylish if she sees them at the 1 heater Guild or in
smart magazines. She isn’t being haunted, too, is she?”

“No, this is the only house around here that I know of.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Betty, “then you’d better try to
stay out of the way.”

She just had time to powder her face and smooth her
hair when she heard Alex at the door.

“Yoooo hoooo,” he called, brightly.

“Hello, darling,” said Betty, her voice low.

"What’s the matter, dear? Tired?”

“A— a little.” She looked around. Maybe she had imag-
ined the whole thing. But no, there in the chair Aunt
Emma had given them for Christmas, that didn’t quite
go with anything else, the ghost sat.

Betty groaned.

“What’s the matter, honey? Aren’t the children all right?”

"The children are fine. Nothing the matter. Only— only
we’ve got a guest. We’re— we’re being haunted.” Betty, in
a sort of introduction, motioned toward the rose-colored
chair.

Alex smiled, then looked annoyed. 'Then he peered into
the chair, jumped back.

“My God!” he screamed.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Betty pleaded. “It’s all right.
Very stylish in England. He’s quite nice!”

“My God!” Alex repeated. “Don’t you see! In tliat cli.iir!”

•168

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said. "Yes,
it’s a ghost He’ll be here for some time.”

She smiled at the ghost. Might as well make the poor
fellow feel at home.

“This is my husband, Mr. Alex Redmond,” she said.

The ghost got to his feet. “Pleased to meet you,” he
said. “Sorry I can’t shake hands. My name is Rudolph—
no, I’m sorry. Ma’am, the last name is Schmidt. I’ve been
telling your missus I was sent here on this haunting job—”

“I see,” said Alex.

Rudolph didn’t eat, so there was dinner enou^ for
Alex and Betty. Alex didn’t have much of an appetite,
but Betty felt quite hungry.

“I’m sorry you can’t join us,” she said to Rudolph.

“Oh, don’t bother about me,” he said. “I’ll look at
these magazines and then mosey around. You won’t mind
me— won’t even see me— after a while. I don’t stay in sight
all the time. I just thought that, until you got used to
me— Wouldn’t you like me to do the dishes? I’ve always
liked kind of puttering around a kitchen.”

Betty hesitated, looked at Alex.

“Might as well let him, as long as he’s here,” Alex said.

Rudolph washed the dishes very nicely. He washed
out the tea towels and hung them up to dry. ’Then he
seemed to ooze out, for he didn’t come back into the
living room and they didn’t notice him when they went
to bed.

“Wasn’t that the damnedest thing!” said Alex. “Maybe
we had indigestion or the house got too hot—”

“Shhhhh,” said Betty. “You’ll hurt his feelings!”

A few nights later “Born to Millions,” with April Morn-
ing as the star, was playing at the Palace 'Theater, on
Grove Street.

“I’d love to go,” said Betty, "but there’s no use going
to the expense of having Mrs. Wrench in. A dollar an

169

hour and pouting if weVe five minutes late and drinking
up the gin if you don’t lock it up.”

A voice spoke from the other end of the living room.

"Say, what about letting me watch the children? No
one will come near ’em while I’m around. And diey both
like me. Children are pretty good about ghosts.”

“Might as well,” said Alex. “It’s the damnedest thing!
But as long as he’s here—”

The children were cozy and sound asleep when they
got home.

They had been rather tied to the house. Now they
went to the movies twice a week. 'They couldn’t afford
more than that, anyhow. And they were able to accept
invitations, too, when they got them.

Rudolph watched the children, reported on everything.

“The telephone rang at nine. I didn’t answer it. Junior
wanted a drink and then I told him to go right to sleep
again and he did. I put down the window a little when
it started to rain.”

Rudolph washed the dishes every night. He cleaned
the house after they had gone to bed. He wasn’t around
in the day time, which Alex thought \sas just as well.
A woman alone in the house with a masculine ghost—

They were afraid, always, that someone would find out
about Rudolph. How could they explain? What could they
say? If they said anything it would mark them as sort of
queer, apart. Outside of that, things couldn’t have been
better. Rudolph did his haunting so unobtrusively, did
so many generous things, that Betty grew awfully fond of
him. The children adored him— wouldn’t go to bed until
he got there, which made things pretty hard as die days
grew longer.

"I hurried just as fast as I could,” he explained. "It
didn’t start getting dark until late and then they called
a conference.”

170 -

“Anything serious?” asked Betty.

“No, just about the rules. Ghosts working out of hours
in the wrong territory. When you see a bun(^ coming out
of a night club, even if you’re off work, it’s the hardest
thing not to do something about it.”

“I can imagine it would be,” said Betty.

Friends of the Redmonds began asking questions. Did
they have a new maid? With all their talk of hard times
and economy! And who was that Betty was talking with
when Mrs. Martin passed? It was before Alex Redmond
came home because she saw him get off the train. And
leaving those darling children alone at all hours—

When Mrs. Stook grew curious, it seemed about time
to do something. So, one night when the crowd was standing
in front of the Grove Street Palace and someone said
something, Betty grew desperate.

“The house is haunted,” she said. “And the ^ost they
sent to haunt us is a perfect darling. He does the work
of three maids and takes care of the children— and hasn’t
broken a thing but that old red saltcellar since he came.”

“Doesn’t she say the funniest things!” the crowd laughed.

“Come home with us and I’ll show you,” Betty offered.

Alex started to say something, changed his mind. "Yes,”
he said, finally, “I wish you would!”

They trooped up the steps of the little house, waited
for Alex to unlock the door, went into the living room.

Betty ran up to see how the children were. 'They were
sound asleep, their mouths nicely closed.

“Rudolph!” she railed. “Rudolph!” There was no answer.
Usually she found him here, waiting for her.

She went into the other rooms upstairs, into the bath-
room. Rudolph wasn’t in sight. Gee, she hoped he wasn’t
afraid of company. Slowly she went downstairs.

The crowd was laughing.

171

"Well, you folks certainly do arrange a good storyl"
someone said.

“What do you mean?” Betty asked.

“As if you didn’t knowl That story about the ghost
and then this note planted for us. That certainly worked
out smooth!”

“What note?”

“Oh, don’t act so innocent!” Som?one thrust a paper
into her hand.

The writing was slightly illiterate, painstaking.

Dear Mrs. Redmond,

I’m sorry I couldn’t wait and tell you good-bye, but
they took me off the job and no time to lose. The chil-
dren always sleep through the evening and I knew you’d
be home early. You was right— they made a mistake in
the house. It was Tenth Street, Grove Park, New Jersey,
and not Grove Park, Long Island. I’ll miss you all a great
deal. Love to the children and my best to Mr. Redmond.
You certainly was kind to me and gave me a real home.
I’d appreciate it if you could drop around to the new
address. Yours truly,

Rudolph Schmidt.

“You folks are clever!” “That was good!” they laughed.

Betty, looking at their faces, wanted to scream at all
of them, wanted to say, “Get out! Go home!” She thought
of the dishes and the cleaning, of the long hours she’d
have to spend at home. More than that. Why, Rudolph
was worth the whole bunch of them. And .she had been
afraid to let them know! And now he was gone!

“Yes, we’re pretty funny,” she said.

172 -

TECHNIQUE

W HEN THEY CAME into the Stork Club,
all the regulars who dined there—
celebrities in their own right, or rela-
tives or friends of celebrities, and the thin sprinklings of
the rich and uncelebrated who came to look at celebrities
—turned to stare at them. This was a triumph. Most diners
at the Stork Club felt themselves too important to look
at anyone else.

Zara Evans and Kent Crane were high on the success
ladder. They were suave and cool. They smiled and
nodded to their friends. Sherman Billingsley had greeted
them, and now they were given the best table in the Cub
Room— a reward for accomplishment. Zara and Kent
stopped a moment to chat with Walter Winchell and
Doiothy Kilgallen, knowing they would be mentioned
in their columns. They said “How are you?” to Morton
Downey, and Igor Cassini, and J. Edgar Hoover, seated at
nearby tables— not, of course, waiting to find out how they
were.

Zara waved away the menu. She allowed herself
orange juice to accompany Kent’s very dry Martini, clams
while he had a thick soup, two lamb chops and spinach
while he dined on a mixed grill and a huge baked potato
and hot rolls on which he piled good sweet butter. Zara
had dieted for so long it never occurred to her that her

173

eating habits were unusual— when you’re in the theater
you have to look well.

Zara Evans did look well. Near perfection. She might
have passed for one of the modern mannequins in a Fifth
Avenue shop window, and she knew she was undoubtedly
being sized up for a fashion column. She sat very straight,
her chin up. She wore her dark nair smooth, brushed
back from her brow. The color on hf. lips and fingertips
was so light that, from a distance, she seemed to wear
no make-up. Closer, you saw the results of the skill with
which she’d applied brown to her eyebrows, a shadow of
blue above her eyes, a thin elongation of black to the
comers of her eyes. Her face seemed to shine slightly, as
if she were powderless, the result of an expensive lotion.
Her gown was black and skillfully molded to accentuate
the curves of her warmly slender figure, her mink stole
forming a flattering background. She wore a single strand
of pearls that were obviously real.

“Quite a crowd,” said Kent. Zara smiled across the table
at him. She liked the way he looked— everything about
him. His tweed suit was just unpressed-enough-looking;
his shoulders were broad; his hair, slightly tinged with gray,
wasn’t quite smooth. He ate what he liked and yet his
figure was only slightly heavier than it had bc'cn when
they were married, fourteen years ago. He looked hearty,
immensely fit, masculine.

Fourteen years! It didn’t seem possible. Fourteen years
of being one of Broadway’s successful couples. There
weren’t many of them— Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt,
Katharine Cornell and Guthrie McClintic, Betty Field and
Elmer Rice, Dorothy Stickney and Howard Lindsay, Moss
Hart and Kitty Carlisle.

Each year Kent wrote a play for her. A Kent Crane
play in which Zara Evans starred— and produced by
Vincent Grey.

174

Now, was everything as smoothly beautiful as it had
been all those fourteen years? Was she itnagfiiing things?
She looked at the faces around her. Were diey looking
at her with a new curiosity? Were they wondering what
she knew?

"What’s the matter?” Kent asked.

•Thinkingl”

"People get into trouble for less.”

"My thoughts aren’t dangerous. 'These same people—
as if they were painted on the walls.”

"That’s an ideal Faint them on, and then, if diey don’t
come in, no one will know the difference.”

This wasn’t what she wanted to talk about This was
the way you talked to a casual acquaintance! Were they
just pretending to be a devoted couple, so much in love?
What was the truth? What did people know?

It was only recently that she knew. Kent was interested
in another woman! Oh, he’d been interested in girls before,
but the interest had been harmless froth. This was dif-
ferent. All of the things she’d read— and played and heard
—when a husband wandered. First, Kent had been indif-
ferent, his mind somewhere else. And then he actually
was somewhere else! Their lives were such diat Zara knew
when he wasn’t near— physically, spiritually. Zara had
never felt the need of anyone else. Her home and the
theater and Kent were enough. 'The perfect triangle.
Planning, so that the house ran smoothly; little dinners
and supper parties; and being interested in Kent’s plays,
and acting in Kent’s plays. They both knew that she had
a lot to do with Kent’s dialogue.

"You know how people talk,” he said. "I only know
what I want them to say.” He knew how to bufld to a
climax, and she knew how to act in his plays. Was diis
perfect partnership going to break up? Witiiout Kent she’d
be nothing at all— a faded has-been. No other playwrl^t

175

would bother about her. More than that, without Kent her
world would crumble. She loved him so much— more than
when they’d first fallen in love.

"How are your chops?” he asked.

“Very good. And your dinner?”

"Excellentl But if I wrote this, we’d both be out of
work.”

“How horrible if we talked in epi^rramsl” They both
laughed at that. Maybe there was nothing . . .

She knew better. Kent had always liked playing
bridge with men, and going to clubs, and going on holidays
—fishing in Florida or camping in Maine. Being boyish
and masculine at the same time. But now he came home
late at night and acted sheepish and guilty. He was
living in a world of his own, and she knew he wasn’t
living there alone.

They talked and smiled, an attractive, successful
couple. Kent had a gooey piece of pastry and Zara had
a fruit compote and coffee, and Kent had a liqueur.

A director stopped at their table.

“How’s the new play going?” he asked.

“I’m thinking of taking up bricklaying.”

“That means it’s good. The boys who talk about master-
pieces do the worst plays.”

Five minutes of theater conversation. Zara loved it.
But her mind raced on. Here was Kent— acting just the
same. This was all she had— the theater and Kent. And
Kent, most of all.

The director left, and Kent paid his bill, tipping just
enough so the waiter wouldn’t think he was an easy mark.
Wonderful Kentl

'They had almost reached the door when Kent stopped
and talked to a girl who had just come in. And the way
he spoke— Zara knew! To anyone who didn’t know Kent
it might have been an ordinary meeting, a man speaking

176

to a girl. Zara walked ahead, and waited quietly, and
watched Kent. And watched others, who saw them. It was
almost as if they’d met by appointment! A different Kent,
leaning close, so as not to miss a word. And a girl laughing
up into his eyes!

The girl’was pretty, in a silly way. A snub of a tumed-
up nose. Eyes wide apart. That meant she’d photograph
well. A rounded little chin. Hair too blond. Her figure
was hidden by a bright green sports coat, but Zara knew
that a girl with that head and those legs would have a
good figure. And she was horribly and disgustingly young.
So young she probably never even thought about her age.
Zara worried every day about youth going— a wrinkle, an
extra pound, an intonation. She had to keep her youtib
to keep success— to keep Kent. And this girl was young
without even trying!

“Who was that pretty girl?” she asked Kent when he
joined her, forcing a tolerant and understanding smile.

“1 don’t think you’ve met her,” said Kent casually. “She
was in Ralph Ingham’s summer stock company. I saw her
do the young girl’s part in ‘Personal Appearance.’ She was
very good. Kids have a hard time, today, in the theater."

“The\’ certainly do!” said Zara. She’d had a hard time
too, bit parts and one-night stands and horrible little rooms
in third-rate hotels, and sneaking in food in paper bags.

Very calmly they walked out and into a taxi. 'The
successful playwright and his successful star wife.

“It’s as if I were acting in one of Kent’s plays,” Zara
told herself. “Scene One. Only, I don’t like it. I don’t like
it at all!”

^Vhat do you do if your husband is in love with
another woman? Especially if you love him more than all
the rest of the world put together!

1T7

Zara had played the part often enough, had read it a
diousand times. Lying in her modem bed in her elegant
bedroom— it reproduced well in the magazines— she listened
for the sound of Kent coming home. Jealousy floated over
her, burned into her. She wanted to scream, to claw the
comforter. Those two— going to all the places she and
Kent used to go, laughing at the things they used to laugh
at! Or new things! Or at her— getting older every dayl

Kent— her husband, her playwright, her protector, her
rock. Her whole world would laugh! People are none too
kind— only polite and suave and cringing when you’re on
top. Full of compliments because she was a star If another
woman stepped in, she’d be a has-been— back to bit parts
here and there . . .

Oh, she'd saved something. 'This house in the East
Sixties was in her name. But she couldn’t afford it alone.
Kent! Kent!

In stories and plays it was easy enough for the wife
to win back her husband. All she had to do was to diet
and exercise and do her hair a new way and learn to talk
about things that interested him. But Zara had dieted
for years, she had a massage every day, her hair styling
was copied by thousands, and she always talked about
things that interested Kent. And, now, she didn’t nag nor
complain; tried to act as if everything were all right.

*1 must be a good actress,” she told herself. *This is
the hardest role I’ve ever played.”

She learned about the girl without even trying to Her
name was Jo-Anne McKensev, and she came from Detroit.
So even her little-girl-from-the-country air wasn’t quite the
real diing. That showed how clever she was! She’d
been in New York three years, so she wasn’t sueh a
kid. She had modeled a little, and had clerked, before
Christmas, in a department store.

Kent was completely enthralled. He’d work on his play

•178

in his study. It was comforting to hear the tapping of his
typewriter. He did his own first draft and then sent tihe
pages to a typist. But as soon as he’d finished for die day,
he was on his way. Oh, if Zara gave a party, he was
there— the perfect hostl And he took her to parties— the
perfect escort. But it was as if he were playing a part
too, and the rest of the time he wasn’t there.

They’d had dinner at Twenty-one, greeting friends from
Hollywood, and New Yorkers too— all successful, rich, more
than a bit self-satisfied. Then they’d come home, and she’d
gone to bed, and she’d heard Kent’s door close. So he
was going out— again!

And then there was a knock at her door! And it was
Kent! And he wasn’t out at all! The thrill of having him
there made her throat feel as if she’d swallowed bubbles
mixed with feathers.

“Here’s the play,” he said. “All done! Pretty rough,
of course. Want to see it?”

“You know I do! Has it got a good part for me?”

“What do you think? Even if you do criticize—”

“I pretty my parts up a bit. You know I’m a ham!”

“This play has a new angle, I think,” said Kent, “and
there are three big parts and a lot of small roles.” Kent
was famous for his small roles. “Perfect vignettes,” “Tiny
etchings,” “Complete psychological sketches,” the critics
called them. Would Jo-Anne get one of those?

“I’ll read it right away.”

“Don’t judge it too severely!” He was embarrassed.
“It’s in a bigger mess than usual. If you’ll help with the
dialogue— and by the time the director and Vince get
busy—”

“You’re not going to direct?” He’d directed his last play.

“I don’t think so. It was fun, but I’m a writer, not a
director moving puppets around.”

This was like old times— Kent bringing her his manu-

179

script. She could be generous if there was a tiny part for
the cutie-pie.

Kent left, and Zara pulled the covers up around her,
put on her glasses.

At first, she thought the role of Cynthia had been
written for her. But Cynthia was a very young girl. That
meant that Laura was her role. The third important
character was a young man. Laurc. was middle-aged,
muddle-headed— and in love with the young man.

It couldn’t be! But she’d read Kent’s ragged manuscripts
before. It was a triangl • story, with two women— one young
and attractive, the other neurotic and middle-aged— fighting
for the young man. At first he is grateful, because she
helped him with his career. Then he and the young girl
fall in love. And in the big third-act scene the young girl
begs the woman to give up the young man. 'The older
woman tries to fight back, knowing that the man is all
she has— her happiness and what is left of her youth are
dependent on the young man. The girl shows her that
she is sacrificing the young man, the older woman gives
him up, and the young lovers go away together. And the
older woman is alone.

“It’s horrible!” Zara told herself. “I’d be exposing my
middle age, my inability to hold a man. Of course, the
young man in the play isn’t Kent. Kent is my age. But,
outside of that— Oh, God, what shall I do!”

If she refused to do the play, Kent might walk out on
her and get someone else to play the older woman. She
knew how Kent felt about his plays. Vincent Grey had
already raised the money, was waiting to go into pro-
duction. He’d never turned down one of Kent’s plays.
Other actresses had made a success of playing middle-aged
roles— playing such parts as Tennessee Williams’ neurotic
women. 'This part was different— it was unsympathetic.

•180

without color or right emotion. All of the interest was with
the young girl, who wanted, so badly, the man she loved.
How could Kent do this to herl

She threw a dressing gown over her shoulders, went
to Kent’s room. She couldn’t make a scene! And talking
wouldn’t do a bit of good. She knew how conceited Kent
was about anything he wrote, and this time . . . She must
say something . . .

She knocked on the door. 'There was no answer. She
knocked again. Then, in a kind of panic, she opened the
door. The room was dark. She switc.ied on the light. Kent
had gone out! Mingled, now, with the emotion about the
play, was the old, hot, bitter jealousy.

Back in her room, she tossed in the darkness and tried
to pray. She loved Kent so— wanted him to love her again.
And she wanted success, too. One of the reasons Kent
had loved her was because of her success in his plays.
The two of them, together . . .

The next thing she knew, the sunlight was shining in
streaks through the Venetian blinds. She tiptoed into the
hall. Kent’s door was open, his bed had been slept in.
Either he was at breakfast or he’d already gone out.

At her dressing table, with the shades up, she knew
slie was definitely middle-aged. There were violet shadows
under her e>cs, faint lines around her eyes and mouth,
and her skin was curiously unelastic. Already she’d had
ail the expensive beauty treatments she knew about. She’d
taken gland pellets and injections— to give her energy—
though her doctor knew it was appearance and not energy
that mattered. She made up carefully, brushing on a lip-
stick that counterfeited youth; made up her eyes so they
would not look hard in the morning light. Youth! Youth!
Why was it so important? Why wasn’t there, instead, a

181

reward for living? In China, she’d heard, old age is looked
up to. But she wasn’t in China.

Kent was in the breakfast room. Zara sat down across
from him and prayed her pale flame-colored negligee was
as becoming as she’d hoped it would be when she bought
it. For Kent’s approval.

"Sleep well?” he asked, after the usual good mornings.

"Very well,” she lied. "And you?” •

"I always sleep well, you know. Read the play?” He
was ill at ease. And there was a smoldering anger— a symp-
tom she knew well. Zara didn’t want fireworks.

"Yes, I read it,” she said brightly.

"Like it?”

"It’s got something. As you said, it needs working on.”
She hoped her voice was smooth. “Have you thought about
the cast? For the older woman I thought maybe Margalo
Gilmore or Edna Best—”

“Are you crazy?” His laugh held a sneer. “You hadn’t
planned to play a girl of twenty?”

“Why, no. I guess I took it for granted— it seemed the
star part.” She prayed silently under the words.

“The other woman is the part for you.”

“She seemed unsympathetic—”

“Not if you play it! You can get the audience in tears
when you’re left alone in the end.”

She didn’t want sympathy. But Kent’s eyes were cold.
She nodded, as if accepting the whole thing. Kent looked
relieved, as if he’d expected an argument.

“You’ll be great, as usual.” His voice was smug.

“Have you thought of the others?” She held her hands
together under the table.

He mentioned people for the smaller roles— a silly old
lady, a bartender, a girl and a man from the wrong side
of the tracks who try to impress each other— all for the

182 *

barroom scene. He didn’t mention Jo-Anne McKensey.
Could she have been wrong?

“Vince thought of Lawrence Denvers for the male lead,”
Kent said. “He’s done some good things; young, and doesn’t
mouth his words.”

“He soimds like the kind of man women might
fight over.” She thou^t Denvers rather a cheap-looking
actor. "Who have you in mind for the girl?”

He dropped his eyes. Maybe he just wanted to finish
his bacon and eggs.

"We haven’t quite decided,” he said.

“Margaret Phillips is wonderful,” Zara suggested.

“Too cold. Clever, but not Cynthia.”

“What about Julie Harris?”

‘Too spirituelle. This girl’s got to be gay.”

“June Lockhart couldn’t be more attractive.”

“Tied up.”

“Patricia Kirkland?”

He shook his head. “Not just who I had in mind.”

He rattled his fork against his plate, looked out of
the window. Not until the words were said did she believe
he could say them.

“Vince has a girl in mind— new in New York— and you
know how the critics fall for a new face. I— I saw her act
last summer— very clever: I— I pointed her out to you one
night in the Stork Club. Name's Jo-Anne McKensey.”

There it wasi Out in the openl She couldn’t say any-
thing. Kent went on: "We’re thinking of Luke Marshall
to direct. You like him, don’t you?”

“Very much,” she said truthfully, trying to keep her
mind on him. He wasn’t brilliant or subtle, but he could
turn a wooden figure into an actor. Kent was getting
Marshall to turn a pretty, inexperienced puppet into the
semblance of a girl attractive enou^ to take a man

• 183 *

away from an older woman. Well, in real life she could
do it, couldn’t she?

“You said Vince hadn’t read the play.”

“I’ve told him about it in detail, of course. He’s got
the money and we’ve sounded out Marshall. Nothing’s set.”

He forgot how he’d always talked over everything with
Zara. This was different.

“You’ll help with the dialogue?” he went on. “I’m count-
ing on you.”

“I always do, don’t I? Glad to do it,” she said easily.

And there they were— talking the way they used to
talk. Almost the wayl And as they talked, in the under
layer of her mind something came to Zara— the way things
come to you if you need them and want them badly
enough. The twig to cling tol The light in the distancel
If she were only clever enough! She couldn’t do much at
first. It would have to be very gradual. If— if she could
... It was her only chancel Please, Cod!

Kent Crane had it bad. None of these little soft love
affairs. There’d been a lot of those. This was different.
He was fond of Zara— but this was breath-taking. He was
almost proud because, at his age, he was capable of such
deep and exciting emotion. Everything the girl did seemed
important, interesting. The way she smiled. 'The things
she said— little sentences unfinished. She was straightfor-
ward, aware of herself. She wanted to get ahead in the
theater. She knew what she had to offer— youth and good
looks and a certain impudence. She’d confessed to him,
later, how thrilled she’d been, meeting him at that funny
little stock company.

"I love the things you’ve written! 'That was one of the
big moments of my life! My idea of heaven would be
to be in a play of yours,” she said, smiling. Other women
treated him as half of a married couple— always aware

184

of Zara or wanting sly dates. And Zara— well, Zara was a
damned attractive woman. Why shouldn’t she be? He
wrote plays for her, protected her. She had everything—
everyone catered to her, wrapped her in cotton wool.

He actually met Jo- Anne by accident, when she got
back to town. She was looking for a job and he ran into
her. Poor little kid! Good, in spite of a surface hardness—
maybe she assumed that hiu-dness was her best protection.

“What about having lunch with me?” he asked. Poor
kid! She looked as if she didn’t get enough to eat, at that.

He took her to Sardi’s. And it gave him a nice, superior
feeling because she was impressed by the number of peo-
ple who spoke to him. Zara took that sort of thing for
granted— and it was usually Zara they wanted to speak
to, anyhow. This kid enjoyed having celebrities pointed
out to her, too. And her responses were so gay, so free
of convention, that they made him feel young and care-
free too.

He could urge her to eat substantial food. After years
of Zara’s diet, this was a relief. And how pretty she was!

Perhaps he didn’t fall in love with her at this first
luncheon. But when it was over, he found himself beg-
ging her to see him again. He took her to dinner, two
nights later, at the Colony. And again she was impressed
and pleased. Why, underneath her hardness, she was just
a sweet, trusting little kid, hoping to make good! When
he took lu'r home— to that horrible little room— it seemed
perfectly natural to kiss her good night. She sort of clung
to him— and her lips were soft and young and warm.

After that, they just took it for granted that they were
going to see each other frequently. As often as Kent could
get away. He began to feel like a schoolboy escaping from
strict headmasters. At first, he half explained to Zara that
he had a business date. Why should he have to explain

185

at all? He didn’t want to quarrel with Zara. He wanted to
dismiss her from his mind altogether.

Kent was glad because the city was so large that he
could take Jo-Anne to a hundred different restaurants and
not be noticed. He knew she preferred the Stork and
Twenty-one and the Colony, but he couldn’t risk those
too often. Not the way things weie nowl Maybe some-
day . . . He’d find a way out. He didi ’t want Zara to find
out anything— not yet, anyhow. Something would happen.
Maybe he could persuade Zara to give him his freedom . . .

“I don’t like to sec you living in this drab little room,”
he said.

“It’s all I can afford. I can hardly pay for this! If— if
something doesn’t turn up soon—”

“You poor darling!” he said. “You wouldn’t let—”

“Of course not! You do enough for me now.”

It was fate, or something, when Jerry McCann told
Kent he was going to Hollywood for a thrce-montli
s\tint.

I “Know anyone who wants an apartment? Small, but
mo)dern. Flats get grabbed up in a hurry, but I want
soitneone who is reliable for the short sublease.”

Before he knew it, Kent had the apartment and paid
tVie rent in advance. He made up a tall tale for Jo-Anne
'and she swallowed it— all about the apartment being empty
if she didn’t live in it. It was a cute little place, with
pretty good modem furniture. Now things were a little
better. He could spend hours with Jo-Anne. He’d bring
a bottle of champagne and the chocolates Jo-Anne liked,
and maybe some flowers. And he’d hold Jo-Anne in his
arms, and feel like a very young man on a first date with
his girl. 'This was living! This was worth all the dull days
that had gone before. His girl— Jo-Anne. So sweet and
clinging and— and young! He thought of her all the time
—her voice, her name, the image of her, all coming between

186

him and the rest of the world, between him and Zara,
between him and his friends. Obsession? Maybe. He didn’t
know. Infatuation? Could be. But it was wonderful— and it
had never happened to him before. Zara and he had had a
calm and lengthy courtship, and other women he had
known had been flat and unexciting interludes. Jo-Anne
was romance and excitement and wonder.

When the idea of the play came to him, he was beside
himself with joy. He’d build Jo-Anne into a young starl
He’d have to write a part for Zara, but she would fade
before the young actress’s brilliance. Then Zara could put
on a great renunciation scene— she liked getting dramatic.
And they’d get a divorce! And he’d marry Jo-Anne and
write plays for her, and regain his youth through her.
And the two of them would go on— the critics praising
him for his understanding of the younger generation. And
Jo-Anne would keep on telling him, as she always told
him, that at heart he was younger than she— just a boy
who, through some magic, had grown into a successful
playwright but had kept youth in his heart. Kent loathed
getting old— gray in his hair, the hours he spent in a
gymnasium. Jo-Anne treated him as if he were young,
and he felt she cared for him for himself. Couldn’t she
have found a hundred admirers?

He was relieved when Zara was so sensible about the
play. No one would tell her am^thing in that cotton-wool
nest! He was pretty clever, he felt, the way he’d brought
Jo-Anne’s name into the conversation.

He only glanced at Zara’s changes in dialogiie. He had
to smile when he saw she’d given herself some new lines.
Let her have them— the>' couldn’t change the fundamen-
tals of the play.

Vincent Grey liked the script. Kent knew he would.

187

Vince didn’t know much about plays, though he’d pro-
duced them for twenty-five years. He played safe; put on
works by established authors and with established stars.

“You haven’t given Zara a lot to do,” he said.

“You know Zara! She’ll build up her part.”

“Guess you’re right! You sure you aren’t putting too
much on McKensey? No e.vpericncc and she’ll have to
carry several scenes.”

‘They are short ones. Most of he^ scenes are with
Zara, and Denvers is good. The public falls for good-
looking young players.”

“I guess you know what you’re doing.”

Of course he knew! Rehearsals started, and Marshall
took hold, lust the way Kent knew he would.

“Some of the dialogue doesn’t play well,” he said.

“I’m torn to a frazzle, writing the thing,” said Kent.
“Zara knows more about dialogue than I do, if you need
a line here or there—”

“Fine!” said Marshall. “Most playwrights aren’t so sen-
sible.”

“I’ve never been one of those top-heavy guys.”

“That’s right!” said Vince Grey. “Unless I need you,
you stav out of the wav. You’re a director’s delight!”

Kent didn’t think it necessary to say that Zara always
polished up his plays. Now, like a lovesick boy, he thought
only of Jo-Anne. paying little attention to what was going
on at rehearsals. He didn’t notice the changes Zara
made.

“You’ve sure made a stronger scene,” said Marshall,

Lawrence Denvers complained about his changes.

“Makes me a sap,” he said,

“Nonsense!” said Marshall. “Half the young actors on
Broadway would give an evetooth or maybe even their
hairline for that part. You fust hate to learn new lines.
You don’t hear Miss McKensey complain.”

183

Mostly, though, rehearsals ran smoothly, the smaller
roles emerging with the brilliance Kent always showed.

“You’ve got mighty good stuff there,” Marshall told
him. “The critics will eat up the bartender. And those kids
have a good love scene.”

“Glad you like it,” said Kent. He didn’t like rehearsals
now, except when he knew that if he hung around, Jo-
Anne would soon be free to join him.

“Marshall makes me work hard,” she told him.

“He’ll turn you into a real actress.”

“I’m a real actress now.”

“I know you are, honey. But this is New York. You
do what Marshall tells you. I want you to be a great
star someday.”

“I will be, too! You know, it’s funny, but Zara is very
nice to me.”

“Why shouldn’t she be? She doesn’t— suspect— anything.
And she won’t until after the opening. I want this play to
go smoothly. Come to me if you have any problems.”

There weren’t any problems. But they always had a
lot to talk about.

Maxwell Harely was doing the costumes. He and Zara
had a long talk about them— the way they always talked
about costinnes for her plays. Jidius Goode was doing the
sets: a gracious living room, a corner saloon. Zara had
long talks about the sets, too.

“Is Margaret Charles doing the lighting?” Zara asked
him.

“Of couise!”

“I’ll call Margaret about a lighting rehearsal. She can
arrange for the spotlight man in the balcony and the
light man at the backstage master switch.”

Zara knew her business, all right. Everyone connected

189

with the play felt that. It hadn’t looked like much in the
beginning, but it was shaping up all right now.

Kent caught cold. He was home on the afternoon Zara
had her light rehearsal, but it wouldn’t have bothered
him. Stars like this bit of hocus-pocus— this consulting about
where each spotlight was to be.

The light rehearsal was successful. The light men noted
just where Zara would stand, agreed w 'th Margaret Charles
that the No. 17 special lavender was certainly the best
for her.

“It’s a pleasure,” said Miss Charles, “to have a special
light rehearsal for a star who knows what it’s all about.”

Kent’s cold developed into influenza. Vince Grey came
by to see him. “You’re too old for all this running around,”
he said.

“Nonsense! I worked hard on the play, got run down.”

“Well, you can take it easy now. We don’t need you.
There’s a run-through today, a dress rehearsal tomorrow,
three previews before the opening. Lucky for you we’re
opening cold— you don’t have to trail to Philadelphia or
worry about things.”

“You think Jo-Anne is all right? It’s her first chance!”

“Marshall has done all right by her. Never dreamed
she would be that good.”

"I’m glad,” said Kent. He must remember, w’hen he
felt better, to see that Vince took the credit for discovering
Jo-Anne.

Kent lay in bed and fretted. When he felt better, he
shuffled into the library and tried to read. His play in
rehearsal and Jo-Anne there without him! Not that she
needed him. Everyone had acted all right, she had reported.

Zara rushed home between rehearsals, ate sandwiches,
rushed back again.

“How’s everything going?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

190

“You don’t miss me?”

“Of course we do! But there isn’t a thing— we haven’t
changed a line in days.”

“The cast?”

“They know their lines and they’re all scared— a typical
before-opening feeling.”

He wanted to ask about Jo-Anne. Didn’t dare. Poor Zaral
He was filled with remorse and humiliation as he thought
what the critics would say about her in this minor and
unrewarding role, while a young girl got all the honors.
A star going up and a star going down. Well, he’d made
her what she was! He couldn’t help it if he’d fallen in love
with a younger girl— a real artist has got to do what his
heart dictates.

He managed to get to one of the before-opening
performances for a few minutes. But the lighting wasn’t
right and everything looked drab and gray, even Harely’s
costumes; but he knew Jo-Anne, with her cute little figure,
would look fine. His head hurt and he felt weak and didn’t
even recognize some of the lines. Zara’s additions. From
now on, he’d have to work without Zara. Oh, he could
manage! He was glad to get home and into bed. He’d be
all right for the opening. Not that he ever saw a play
through, opening night. He always wandered backstage or
to the topmost seat in the gallery; or, if things were going
well, he stood in the back of the house, pretending he
didn’t want to be seen. This opening would be different:
Kent Crane’s new play, “Triumph,” introducing the young
girl he loved.

Jo-Anne McKensey was nervous on opening night— and
yet sure of herself. She’d always known something nice
would happen. Hadn’t she .dways been different— the pret-
tiest girl on the block! Here she was practically starring
in a play written just for her! She was sorry she had

191

quarreled with her folks— so she could not write them about
it. Maybe it was just as well, or the whole family would
land on her. Better let well enough alone!

Kent Crane— he was an old fool, but sweet. Tiresome
as all getout, but after the opening he’d promised he would
take her all the time to places where she’d see famous
people— he wouldn’t be afraid of hi.s wife any more.

From the first moment she’d seen k?nt she’d known she
could land him. lie fell for everything she said and just
lapi)ed up compliments as if they were cream. She’d marry
him— unless someone better came along. She’d be on top
and not have to take just anybody. She’d be a star— when
the critics saw how much better she was than Zara Evans.
She was a funny one, that Zara. Cold as a cucumber. And
always keeping to herself. When she was a star, she’d see
that things were gayer around the theater.

Opening night and people worrying and fussing. She
got only a few telegrams, but she spread them around.
White orchids from Kent— he thought white orchids were
wonderful. He and Zara were having a party for the cast
and some friends after the show. Wait till Zara saw the
notices! Didn’t she even suspect that the play showed her
up as an old crow who couldn’t hold her man? She’d see
—when she read the notices!

Jo-Anne, dressing alone, as Zara did, put on her make-
up slowly. She felt she didn’t remember a line— but that’s
the way it had been in summer stock. When she got on
the stage she’d be all right. She knew she was good. Kent
always told her so, and even if he was in love with her,
he wouldn’t have given her such a swell part unless he
thought she was great. During those long weeks of re-
hearsal on that dtisty stage she’d taken Marshall’s direction,
but there were a couple of places where she was going
to read the lines her way. There was nothing he cotild do
about it!

192

She dressed herself. She didn’t have a maid, but she
decided she’d have one before long. She wouldn’t ask for
a raise just yet— men like to think you’re unworldly and
not greedy.

Knocks on the door— half hour— fifteen minutes— time to
go on!

There she was— in the wings! Someone slapped her bot-
tom— for luck. And she was on!

Her first scene was in the saloon where she and
Lawrence get acquainted. The lines said themselves easily—
after the first minute it all seemed familiar. Funny, though,
Lawrence’s lines sounded cheaper than she remembered
them. Coarse, almost! And Lawrence looked kind of com-
mon, too, and his clothes were loud. Maybe he looked all
right from the front. She liked her dress— sort of fancy, but
pretty, and she felt it was becoming. Because Lawrence’s
lines sounded vulgar, she began to get more elegant in her
own deli\’ery, to show the audience this wasn’t just a cheap
pick-up, but the beginning of a beautiful romance.

The audience laughed at some of her best lines! That
surprised her. She hadn’t thought them funny. But she knew
the value of laughs.

She got quite a hand at the end of the scene.

At the end of the first act, everyone said things were
going just fine. Just before her next entrance, Kent came
in. He looked tired. He was getting old, that one!

“I hear you went over swell!” he said. She knew that,
without his telling her, but hearing it wasn’t bad.

“You missed my scene?”

“I was with Vince. I’ll catch your big scenes, baby!”

She had another scene with Denvers. It went over all
right, in spite of the laughs in odd places.

Then she had her first scene with Zara. And it was
entirely diffeient than it had been at rehearsals. Zara’s

193

voice was different! She had sort of run through during
rehearsals. Now she paused at odd times, and while Jo-
Anne spoke, she picked up things, or pulled at a
thread on her dress. Or turned her back! It made Jo-Anne
have to sort of run after her, as if she were saying, “Please
listen to me!” That was not the idea at all! Sometimes
Zara acted as if she didn’t hear what Jo-Anne was saying.
And she stepped on the end of Jo-.\^e’s speeches. Or
waited longer than she had at rehearsals, which made
Jo-Anne sort of fidgety. Maybe Zara was nervous— open-
ing night and all. She hadn’t acted this way at the dress
rehearsals or the previews. Well, she didn’t make Jo-Anne
go up in her lines, and she didn’t keep her from getting
applause!

The lighting annoyed Jo-Anne, too. A funny spotlight
followed Zara around, and she couldn’t get in it, no matter
how she tried.

The next scene was better. There were a lot of people
on the stage and Jo-Anne knew where to stand and didn’t
have much to say. She hadn’t remembered that the groups
all seemed to form so that Zara was the focal point— with
that spotlight on her— but that’s the way it was. Oh, well,
wait until that big scene, when she’d put Zara in her place!

The big scene! They’d rehearsed that enough! Zara had
always played it the way you’d expect— the way a woman
would act if a pretty girl had stolen her man and left
her alone. Now Zara made all the words sound different.
She was calm and— well, kind of snpcrif)r, and with a sort
of condescending tenderness. Jo-Anne didn’t know what
to do. When Zara had grown angry, she had screamed at
her. It was difficult to scream at this calm woman, but
she’d rehearsed screaming, so she screamed. And while
she screamed, Zara did little things— whirled her skirt
around or fingered her pearl necklace. And she smiled

194 *

when she should have been in tears. What was the matter
with Zara? Was she folding up? Jo-Anne was angry. She
didn’t want her best scene ruined just because Zara had
forgotten what to do. Well, the audience applauded loud
enough! Oh, they applauded Zara, too. Loyalty, undoubt-
edly!

Jo-Anne heard the applause for Zara’s scene with Den-
vers. Well, at least she hadn’t gone to pieces. There was
one more scene— the three of them together. She did hope
the play wouldn’t fail because Zara forgot what to do.

Zara acted just as oddly as she had before! She acted
deaf— and walked upstage. And you’ve got to shout when
someone acts like that! Lawrence sounded coarser than
ever— but the audience appreciated it when Jo-Anne acted
like a lady! The ending certainly was odd— Zara forgot
what to do— almost laughing— and only half pretending to
cry. Well, the show was over.

Everyone applauded like mad. They all took bows. And
Zara didn’t .sc*ein to know her part was unimportant and
pitiful, and that she hadn’t even played the way she’d
rehearsed. She bowed with all the others. And then took
a bow all alone*! 'I'he conceited fool! She just had sense
enough to motion for the others for the final curtain!

Jo-Anne put on her new black dress and put her new
pearls around her neck— she didn’t know how good they
were. Kent had given them to her and she hadn’t had
time to take them to a jeweler for appraisal. A knock on
her door. It was Kent.

“Ready?” he asked. “I want you to drive to the house
with us.”

“I’m ready!” She’d driven in that big black car, but
not with Zara or the others there.

“Your first big opening night is over! Tired?”

“Of course not! At my age! How did it go?”

195

“Good, I hope! Now we'll just drink and act cheer-
ful until the morning papers come out!”

Zara was already in the car with two bit players.
Jo-Anne crowded in— luckily she could lean against Kent.

Some of the guests were already there— a couple of
unimportant critics on weekly publications, some actors and
actresses who weren’t working, some friends of the Cranes’
who had been out front. All of the coi^pany arrived . . .

Everyone drank champagne and ate lobster mousse
and creamed chicken and ham and tongue. And voices
were too high, nervous. Only Zara seemed self-contained,
calm. Maybe she knew what a fool she’d made of herself
—and that she was through! Maybe she knew that Jo-Anne
had— well— taken her place!

A man played a long, dull piece on the piano. Jo-Anne
didn’t believe anyone enjoyed it. A woman sang, and they
applauded like mad. An oldish couple did a silly English
music-hall act.

No one paid any attention to her. They’d sing a dif-
ferent tune when they read the reviews.

Someone telephoned to Art Ford at WNEW.

“Ford says that John Chapman loves the show!” No
details. Just that. People began looking a little more cheer-
ful.

“I'll go out and get the papers,” said Vince Grey, finally.
“They’ll be at Times Square any minute.”

When the reviews arrived, things would happen. That
would be the most important minute in her life! They’d
see how Kent felt— and that Zara was a has-been. She
imagined reading: “A new star is born!” and “The first
genius of the season!”

Some of the guests left— to catch trains, they said.
Jo-Anne felt that they didn’t want to hear of Zara’s failure.

Any minute now . . . Her head whirred, the way she

•196

felt when she’d had a wisdom tooth pulled and took gas.
The others in the company were nervous too, but of course
they didn’t have so much at stake— didn’t realize . . .

The doorbell rang. Everyone straightened to attention.
Kent hurried to the door.

Vince came in, bringing almost a definite breeze with
him. He had papers in his hand.

“We’ve done it again!” he said. “I read as much as I
could in the taxi. Brooks Atkinson and John Chapman
raved. Walter Kerr was nearly as enthusiastic. Bob Cole-
man thinks Kent has written a classic!”

“Isn’t that wonderful!” “Let’s see!” “I was sure all along!”
People spoke in staccatos, a jumble of words.

“Let Kent read the notices,” someone said.

“I’m much too modest,” Kent said, “and my throat's
sore. Vince, you read them.”

Everyone froze into silence. Jo-Anne dropped her eyes
—felt more self-conscious than she’d ever felt; she was
usually at ease anyplace. Vince was reading. Jo-Anne
didn’t know what paper or hear all the words. His voice
was not too smooth— he wasn’t accustomed to reading aloud.

“ ’. . . Zara Evans and Kent Crane came into their own
last night. If, before this, we have regarded them too
lightly, our hat is off to them now. In “Triumph,” Kent
Crane emerges as a mature and expert playwright, and
Zara Evans, looking more beautiful than ever, works magic
with the brilliant and subtle lines. No other playwright
could turn such a simple theme into such poignant drama,
and no other actress could achieve, with seeming simplicity,
such heart-tearing climax. The story is the hackneyed one
of two women in love with one man. Lawrence Denvers
plavs brilliantly the cheap, conceited, and unworthy man,
and the young woman, a tawdry little tart he picks up
at a bar, is adequately played by a newcomer, Jo-Anne
McKensey. 'The older woman, played by Zara Evans,

197

emerges as a three-dimensional character, a woman who
knows she has loved unwisely and who knows diat renun-
ciation is her only way of happiness. Her third-act scene
with the younger woman is a flawless bit of playing. The
young tart, demanding that Laura give up the young man,
loses her veneer of refinement and becomes a screaming
little vixen, while Zara Evans underplays every emotion.
With Miss Evans’s unobtrusive assisinncc and with such
perfect technique you are hardly aware of it, she helps
Miss McKensey to get along very well in a difficult role.
Otherwise, she might prove a colorless new ingenue . . ”

Jo-Anne couldn’t believe it. What did that critic mean?
She a guttersnipe, and Zara a great actress! It couldn’t
be! Why, Zara had done all the wrong things, while she,
Jo-Anne, had done all— well, nearly all— the things Marshall
had taught her! This critic was probably a friend of Zara’s.
The others—

Vince read on. Jo-Anne dug her nails into her palms.

‘“. . . could have been a monologue by the beautiful
and magical Zara Evans, as she showed us, last night,
that glamorous middle age is superior to colorless youth.
In the brilliant and subtle “Triumph,” Kent Crane has
shown depths that those who enjo\'ed his lighter plays
never suspected. His dialogue is brilliant and understand-
ing. Zara Evans’s lovely voice has never been used to better
advantage. Jo-Anne McKensey, as the cheap little street
girl, and Lawrence Denvers as the stupid j’oung man, do
little to assist Miss Evans, who needs no assistance, so per-
fect is her technique. Smaller roles show taste in both
writing and acting. The splendid direction . . .’”

What did they mean? Why, this wasn’t the play about
two lovely young people in love and the awful clinging
older woman! Something had gone wrong, Vince was read-
ing another review. Maybe—

198

“ . to make iis believe that Zara Evans is a middle-
aged woman whom any man could cease to love is pulling
the cord of probability too far. To ask us to accept the
fact that she has given her affection to a worthless rotter
who picks up cheap girls in bars is humanly impossible.
Yet Crane, with knowledge of psychology and the theater,
has mixed both ideas into probability. Zara Evans, look-
ing younger and acting better, leaves you moist-eyed when
she sends the soiled doves away together. Lawrence
Denvers, as tlie rotter, and Jo-Anne McKensey, as the
shrill-voiced girl, are adequate. The bartender . . .’ ”

They kept on, those newspapers! Where was her big
night?

“ ‘Add “Triumph” to the list of plays you must see. Zara
Evans and Kent Crane have added their best play to the
new season. The always brilliant Zara Evans of the golden
voice has added new technique . . . Kent Crane, now otir
most brilliant playwright . . .’ ”

Vince finished reading, and everyone moved suddenly,
kissed Zara, said, “Isn’t it wonderful!” ‘Tou’ve done it again,
you two!” And “Wait until you read Dick Watts and Bill
Hawkins— you know how they love Zara!” And ‘Ward
Morehouse thinks he discovered Zara— he’ll go to town,
and wait until you read Winchell ...”

Jo-Anne tried to smile. But it didn’t matter— no one
paid any attention to her. She felt a thickening in her
throat, was almost dizz)'. She couldn’t stand it! Not a
minute more!

“I’ve got to talk to you!” She hurried up to Kent.

"In a minute. Can’t you see—”

“I see a lot of things! I’ve got to talk to you!”

“All right!” His voice was impatient. “I’ll go into the
library."

199

She’d left her coat in the library, so she knew where it
was. Kent followed her into the room.

"What did you think you were trying to do?” she asked.

‘Telling my guests good-bye.”

“I don’t mean that, as you well knowl Writing a play
and pretending it was for me!”

“It was for you, Jo-Anne! I swear -”

“Tliat’s a good one!” Her voice g'ew louder. “You’re
going to make a star out of me, and your wife gets all
the praise— and— and they called me a guttersnipe.”

“They were referring to— to your acting.”

“But you told me the part was entirely different.”

“That is what I thought. But, evidently, the way it was
played—”

‘That’s a likely story! After all the things you said, you
and— and Zara plotted behind my back— double-crossed me!”

“You don’t mean that! You talk like a wife who has
been betrayed. ‘The best years of my life!”’

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You promised
me a lot— and look what happened!”

“You mean— you wouldn’t have— have— well, gone with
me if you hadn’t thought I’d— well, make a success of you?”

“You guessed it! You’re twice my age! I’d— call you
an old man if I wasn’t a lady.”

“That sounds like a line out of the play,” Kent said
seriously.

“Always a play! Look, I won’t stand for this! You’ve
—you’ve got to do something!”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, you can just rewrite that damned old play— the
way you promised.”

“I don’t see how I can do that, Jo-Anne. I— I tried to
write it for you. I’m sorry if things—”

“You’re a liar! That’s what you are!”

200

“I don’t like that, Jo-Anne!” Was this the girl he’d
thought about, dreamed about?

“That’s too bad! What you like! You promised me some-
thing! You can just go to those old critics and tell them
your wife played a trick on you.”

“Why, Jo-Anne! What do you mean?”

“You know, all right! Either you double-crossed me, or
you’re so dumb you don’t know what happened. I did just
what Marshall told me and then she talked funny— some-
times too fast and sometimes too slow, and always too low
—and I had a hard time saying my lines at all!”

Suddenly Kent started to laugh. Real laughter. And he
couldn’t stop laughing.

‘Tou!” said Jo-Anne. “Playing tricks on a girl like me!
You— an old man— and your old middle-aged wife! I— well.
I’m through! That’s what I am— through!”

She expected him to crumple up. Grovel. Apologize.
After all the things he’d said. He stood there laughing
instead.

“I’m going to quit the show! You’ll never see me again!”

“Perhaps that’s just as well,” Kent said. “Now that I
know how you feel. Your understudy—”

“You! You!” screamed Jo-Anne, and couldn’t think of a
thing strong enough to say. She flounced out, furious, still
trx’ing to think of a proper answer.

Zara was telling the last guests good-bye. She knew
Jo-Anne and Kent had left the room together. She felt a
great wave of relief when he came back alone. The girl
was gone, then. She didn’t allow herself to wonder what
had happened.

She and Kent were alone.

She stood very straight and still.

“We did it again!” Kent tried to make his voice sound
natural, hearty. “Swell notices!”

201

“Yes, they were fine!”

He swallowed, tried again: “They all said how well you
looked— admired your technique.” Compliments had always
worked before.

“They were kind.” A wall of ice himg between them.

“Zara,” he said, “I’m sorry! I’n' a fool! To have let
things come between us like this! Y.m were sweU— about
the play—”

“You sound like a bad actor in a melodrama,” she said.
"What came between us? The fact that you wrote a good
play for me?”

“You devil!” he said. “You beautiful, terrible, brilliant
devil!”

“That’s better!” she said. “Makes more sense! More con-
sistent!” Suddenly she was laughing.

“How could you, Zara?” he asked. ‘When did you know?
And how did you think of— of— of doing a thing like that?
I didn’t think you were capable—”

“—of being a good actress, Kent?”

“Be yourself, can’t you! How did you think of it? When
did you begin? The clothes and the sets and the lights
and the dialogue— and \our acting. I caught just enough of
the show, but I wasn’t sure until I read the reviews.”

“It’s a good play.”

"It is— now. Zara, you’ll never know how— how grateful
I am to you— for everything. But then I’ve always been.
But when did you know-how much did you know?”

She laughed again.

“That, darling, you’ll never find out.”

“But you must care for me, or you wouldn’t—”

"Of course I do,” she said, “or I wouldn’t have done—
anything! You’d be even more conceited if you knew how
much. I guess I had to— well, fight for you. My way. The
only way I had. In the theater. Technique!”

202

He put his arms around her, held her close. He had
almost forgotten how wonderful she was— and how wonder-
ful in his arms. Her perfume . . .

“Oh, Zara, it’s been such a long timel”

“Only a season,” she said, purposely misunderstanding
him. “Zara Evans and Kent Clark, good dressers on and
off, as they used to say in vaudeville. Plays written and
acted to order.”

They laughed together. Zara thought her lau^ter
sounded real— leal enough to fool Kent. She had done it!
The play was a success and Kent was back! Kent was
back! This time Maybe for a long time, please God.

• 203

THE ODD OLD LADY

T he fibst time that old Mrs. Quillan
knew anything was, well, different,
was the night at dinner when Winnie
came into the dining room wearing her new blue dress.

Winnie was seventeen and the prettiest of the old
lady’s grandchildren. She had soft, light hair and a tip-
tilted nose, and had just got over the sloppy-sweater
stage. Now she wore a dress that fitted closely her slim,
young body.

“I’m so glad you got the spot out of your dress,” the
old lady said, in her gentle voice with just a suggestion
of a quaver in it.

“Wliat spot do you mean, Grandma?” asked Winnie.
“This is my new dress. I never had a spot on it.”

“Why, didn’t Ralph Miller spill chocolate ice-cream
soda on it and we couldn’t . . .” Grandma began and
stopped suddenly.

“You must have dreamed that, Mother,” said Julia
Latham a bit uncertainly. It wasn’t like Mrs. Quillan to
imagine things. Everybody was always saying how clear
her mind was.

“Of course, I ... I guess I dreamed it,” said the old
lady quickly. She put some raspberry jam on a piece of
bread for Bobby and was glad he didn’t say anydiing.
Bobby was a great one for repeating things. So was Evan,

205

her son-in-law. They never meant anything by it. Grandma
knew that. But they liked family jokes. If ... if they took
this up . . . Grandma gave a sigh of relief when they began
talking about something else.

For, as soon as she had said it, Grandma knew! She
knew as definitely as she knew that on the table stood
the old teapot and sugar bowl that Grandpa had brought
her when he’d gone to St. Louis mai >v years ago. It wasn’t
a dreami She knew something no one else could know.
And it had never happened to her before. ^Vinnie didn’t
know about the spot on her dress because she hadn’t yet
spotted her dress! Ralph Miller hadn’t )'et spilled the
chocolate soda down the front of it. Poor Winnie! Her
lovely new dress to be ruined like that! Grandma couldn’t
warn her.

There was nothing she could do, for Grandma didn’t
know how she knew about the spot. Sometimes, here of
late, she’d got sort of mixed up about things. Like when
she thought she’d seen Mrs. Willis on the street— and Mrs.
Willis had been dead for three years! Oh, Grandma knew,
all right, when she thought hard. And she tried to think
before she said things, but thi.s had sort of tumbled out.
Oh, well, maybe she was wrong! Maybe Winnie wouldn’t
spot her dress after all.

Grandma tried to pretend to herself that she hadn’t said
anything.

There were lots of things to do. Dishes to wash. Beds
to make. Helping her daughter, Julia, so that Julia could
have time for the things she liked to do. Doing the things
Winnie was supposed to do, b<*causc Winnie hated house-
work. A young girl has to have some fun!

Three days later Winnie flew into the house.

“That awkward goon of a Ralph Miller!” she wailed.
“He spilled a whole glass of chocolate ice-cream soda all

206 *

over my dress! He said Chester Alden shoved his arm.
It never will come out, I know!”

"You’d better take it right to the cleaners,” her mother
said, “unless Grandma . .

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Grandma, knowing the spot
would always show.

“It’s my new dress!” said Winnie. And then she remem-
bered. “Grandma, didn’t you say I’d get chocolate soda
on my dress?”

“Oh, Grandma was just imagining things. She wasn’t
even with you. Rush out to the cleaners with that dress,”
Julia said.

Winnie ran away and Grandma took a deep breath of
thankfulness. Maybe they wouldn’t mention what she’d
said about the spot ever again. It was too bad, though,
it’s coming true. Winnie didn’t get many pretty things.
Grandma made a resolution to be more careful.

It was odd about life, anyway. One time everything
had run along so smoothly. There’d been the little cottage
and Grandpa, and then the children. There wasn’t even
time to think about things, then. Everything was in its
right order— just the way it happened. Breakfast to get-
hearty breakfasts, for Grandpa worked hard and liked hot
biscuits and a nice piece of fried ham in the morning.
And there was bread to bake— fat, fragrant loaves, and
coffee roasting in the oven and bacon frying. Grandma
liked nice smells. And sewing for the whole family— you
couldn’t buy good, ready-mad*’ things in those days. And
long rides with Grandpa in the surrey behind Nelly, the
steady, old marc. And then this big house, and a girl
to help with the cleaning, though Grandma liked to do
the cooking herself. And the children growing up . . .

And now Grandpa was dead and little Josephine was
dead. And Arthur was married and living in Chicago, and
he never forgot to send a check every month and a letter.

207

too, though being married to a wife none of them knew
very well sort of separated them.

Grandma shook her head. Everything was all right!
Here she. was, living with Julia and Evan, who were so
good to her. Of course the house was hers, and Arthur’s
check went into the family coffers, but she knew Evan
did the best he could. Grandma did her share, too. And she
was glad she could help in the house <ind with the neigh-
bors when she had a chance. Dr. Clement was mighty
good about coming by, and picking her up, and letting
her do things when he had a patient who was too poor
to hire a nurse.

Yes, everything was all right, except knowing things.
And even that might be all right, if she could remember
to keep things straight in her mind.

It was last year when things began to get mixed up.
Things that had happened a long time ago seemed to
have happened only yesterday. And things that had hap-
pened only yesterday she couldn’t remember at all. She
asked Dr. Clement about it— as if it wore happening to
someone else, and he said that’s the way it was sometimes
when you got old.

It wasn’t much fun getting old. Grandma knew she
took little, short steps, and the others had to walk slowly
when they went to church. And there were her teeth . . .
and her eyes. And it was lonely without Grandpa, though
she never let the others know. There weren’t many men
like Grandpa. She’d been lucky having him all those years.
The year they planted the lilac bush ... It seemed odd
when she forgot it had been planted many years ago.

But that was all right, remembering things that hap-
pened so long ago and forgetting the things that happened
just yesterday. It was this new thing that worried Grandma,
knowing things before they happened at all. But maybe
it was an accident— knowing about the stain on the blue

208

dress. She must be careful and keep her mind on what
she was saying.

But she forgot that day at breakfast. The rest of the
family drank coffee, but Grandma liked tea.

“Bring in Grandma’s tea,” Julia called to Winnie, who
was carrying things in from the kitchen.

“Just bring my tea in a cup,” said Grandma, “as long
as the teapot’s broken.” But she was sorry about the teapot,
for she loved it.

“The teapot’s not broken. Mother,” said Julia.

“But Bobby broke it,” said Grandma. “Don’t you remem-
ber? I don’t mind, really. He couldn’t help it.”

“Here’s your teapot,” said Winnie and put it on the
table in front of Grandma.

“I’m sorry,” Grandma said, “I just imagined it, I guess.”

But she hadn’t imagined it. She just hadn’t realized
that the teapot hadn’t yet been broken! She picked it
uj) lovingly and watched the clear amber stream pour into
her cup.

“You’re getting odd notions, Mother,” said Evan, “the
way you imagine things!”

“I know,” said Grandma, “maybe things that I dream
of. . . .”

She put her hands into her lap suddenly. 'They were
trembling so she couldn’t have held the pot another minute.

A couple of days later, Bobby came home from school
and reached for the cookie jar, high on the shelf, and
the teapot careened onto the floor and lay there, broken.

“I couldn’t help it!” wailed Bobby. “Maybe, because
what Grandma said about my breaking the teapot . . . ”

“Of course,” comforted Grandma, “I sort of put it
into your mind. You couldn’t help it at all.” She gave
Bobby some of the Jordan almonds Mrs. Rogers had brought
her on her birthday. No one said anything else about

209

the teapot— after all, it was just an old teapot that only
Grandma cared about.

“Ill be more careful after thisl” Grandma told herself.
But it worried her. It was all right the days she took an
umbrella when the skies were still clear, because old ladies
were apt to carry umbrellas. And going to see old Mrs.
Hodges when she was lying alone and il^ because Grandma
always had gone to see Mrs. Hodgei, Only that day
Grandma took a basket of provisions and wore her old
clothes, the way she did when Dr. Clement took her to
see sick people. But no one thought anything about it,
because no one but Grandma was interested in Mrs. Hodges.

It was different about Winnie’s new beau. Grandma
knew about him as if it had already happened. But she
couldn’t seem to see clearly the people he was mixed up
with. It couldn’t be Winnie! Winnie couldn’t get into any-
thing like that!

Grandma thought it over and she knew she had to
warn Evan, though she usually stayed out of things.

“That new boy from Chicago— I wouldn’t let Winnie
go out with him,” she said.

“Why, Mother, he’s a cousin of the Dillmans,” Evan
said. “He’s been ill, came here to build up. A fine young
man!”

“He’s not a fine young man,” Grandma said. “He’ll
. . . he’ll get into trouble. I don’t want Winnie . . .”

“The way you talk!” said Winnie. “Honest, Grandma,
he couldn’t be nicer— not like these dull home-town boys
I’m used to.”

'The others agreed— a nice young man, Sid Forrest.

They never knew that when Sid telephoned, and
Grandma answered the call, she didn’t tell Winnie. And
she gave Winnie the wrong direction the day Sid was to
meet her at the library.

But when Winnie continued to see Sid, Grandma knew

210

she had to do something. She even worried about it at
night in bed.

Finally, she made up her mind. One day she put on
her best black dress, with a little, white-embroidered col-
lar, and the brooch Grandpa had given her, and her rather
shapeless little black hat, and went to see Morris DiUman.

Mr. Dillman was a tall, lanky gentleman, with a lined
face. He had known Grandma Qnillan all of his life.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Quillan?” he asked kindly.

"It’s about Sid Forrest,” Grandma said. “He’s going
with Winnie, my granddaughter. I don’t want him to
come to the house any more.”

“Why, Mrs. Quillan, he’s my own second cousin. Were
very fond of him. Did the family send you?”

“Oh, no. they don’t know anything about it. I thought,
if we talked it over ...”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Dillman, as if he were
talking to a child. “Now, you go home and forget all
about it.”

“Oh, thank you,” Grandma said. And stayed on to talk
about little things, so Mr. Dillman wouldn’t think she was
odd or anything.

Mori’is Dillman must have gone right over to see Evan
Latham, for by the time Grandma got home— she had
stopped in to see Mrs. Morrison and the twins— the whole
family knew about her call.

“Why, Mama,” Julia said, “I don’t know what’s got into
you lately. It isn’t like you at all.”

“Dillman thought it was odd,” said Evan, who looked
worried, too, ‘liis cousin and all ... ”

“Why, Mother,” Julia said sternly, “you’ll ruin Winnie’s
chances ...”

“I’ve never done anything like this before. And she’ll
have other chances. She’s only seventeen.”

211

Winnie was in tears. She didn’t say anything.

But Sid kept on seeing Winnie. Grandma didn’t know
what to do. If there were only some way she could tell
them what she knew. And right on the heels of that,
there was that thing she said, without thinking, on the
way to church.

‘They’re certainly neglecting th^ Kerner house since
old man Kerner died,” Grandma saia'

They all looked at her curiously.

“Why, what makes you think he’s dead?” Evan asked.

“Wliy, he died that day we had the rainstorm ...”
She began, then stopped, remembering!

“He’s as alive as any of us,” Evan said. “But they do
neglect their place, all right— too lazy to keep it up. You
mustn’t get notions like that in your mind. Mother.”

Old man Kerner died a few weeks later, and it rained
hard the day he died. It was funny. Grandma saying that.

And when she said that about the Bates’s apple tree
being struck by lightning, weeks beforehand. Just a coinci-
dence, of course, but it was odd . . .

Grandma began to be afraid to say anything. She
had to think over carefully what she was going to say,
and try to remember if a thing had happened twenty
years ago— or yesterday— or was going to happen tomorrow.
It was like, well, being up in a balloon, or maybe an
airplane. Grandma didn’t know about airplanes. She’d
never been up in a balloon, either. But an airplane winged
so swiftly through the sky, surely it couldn’t get a view
of the whole country at one time. A balloon seemed sort
of stationary. She could see everything all stretched out
at one time, though not too clearly, sometimes.

Yesterdays, a long way back, were clear. But recent
yesterdays were dimmed, with just a few things plain.
Today was clear enough. And tomorrow was like yester-

212

day— certain things standing out bright and real and shining,
the rest of it sort of dim, as if it were still in Time.

Sometimes Grandma knew, by the way the family
looked at her, that she had said things she didn’t mean
to say, even when she didn’t know what she had said.
Only Bobby didn’t seem to care. She loved Bobby; she
loved all her children and grandchildren. If there was
only something she could do . . .

If she’d only cared about big events! If only she’d
been smarter when she was young! And had read the first
pages of the newspapers and all of the serious books
Grandpa had read, instead of darning children’s stockings
in the evening. If she knew about things, maybe now
she’d be able to see things ahead that would help people.
But when she tried to see ahead— to big things— she saw
only confusion, and never anything she could tell anyone.
But, if the little things just stayed in their proper places . . .

Julia Latham was awfully worried about her mother.
She talked things over with Evan.

“I don’t know what we can do,” she said. “Mother
acts all right most of the time, but some of the things
she says . . . And she has such odd explanations ...”

“It’s too had,” Evan said. “She’s been such a wonderful
person, but now . . . she’s odd. There’s no denying it. Per-
haps if you saw Dr. Clement . . .”

“That’s what I thought I’d do,” Julia said. “He’s known
Mother longer than any of us, and being a doctor and
all. . . .”

Julia sat in the doctor’s office and pretended to read
the magazines that were as old as the cartoons said
magazines in doctors’ offices were. She tried to keep her
mind on what she was reading and on the people in
the office, until the nurse said Dr. Clement could see her.

Dr. Clement was hearty and red-faced, kind and wise.

213

“Nothing wrong, I hope,” he said. “I saw Evan yester-
day. He looked fine. And Grandma Quillan. . . .”

“It’s about Mother I want to see you,” Julia said. “She’s
not really ill. She’s always been so well, but here lately . . .
we’re worried about her.”

“But she seemed finel She stopped in just a few weeks
ago, to tell me about the Bosleys down on Graham Road.
Said the older boy was going to dJo, but that we could
save the other two. As good a diagnosis as a doctor could
have given. The boy died of rheumatic fever, but we’re
getting the other two on their feet. With the right care.
. . . She’s a remarkable woman, Grandma Quillan. Many’s
the time she’s helped me out.”

“Mother is wonderful,” said Julia. “You don’t have to
tell me that. But, well, like knowing about the Bosley
boy. . . . Maybe that isn’t just what I mean. But her mind
is all confused. She doesn’t remember what happened yes-
terday, but something that happened twenty years ago ”

“Sure!” Dr. Clement said. “A lot of old people get
that way. She asked me about that condition some time
ago, but I wasn’t certain she meant herself. Usually
people don’t realize their own condition. But I don’t think
that’s serious.”

“I’m glad of that,” Julia said, “But that isn’t all. She
gets all kinds of hallucinations. She imagines things.”

"What kind of things?”

“She thinks they’ve happened. But they haven’t hap-
pened at all.”

“Oh, I see!” Dr. Clement was more serious now.

“Sometimes she tries to pretend she didn’t say them,
and then gets more mixed up than ever. And sometimes
she frightens us— things happen just the way she says
they’ve already happened. I don’t know if you see what
I mean. A coincidence, of course, but it worries us.”

"Of covurse,” Dr. Clement said.

214

"And there’s Bobby. She’s devoted to him and he loves
her, too, but he’s only seven. And after school she’s fre-
quently alone with him . . .”

“Oh, I feel she’s perfectly safe.”

“I hope so, doctor. But we can’t help worrying. The
other day she said Bobby would cut himself with a new
knife somebody had given him. And the next day he did
cut himself. It may be the power of suggestion on a child,
for Bobby hangs on every word she says. And she went
to a friend of ours and complained about one of Winnie’s
boy friends. Isn’t there something, doctor?”

“There aren’t any drugs, if that’s what you mean. I’m
afraid it’s senile dementia. But let me come in and look
her over. She ought to have a good physical and mental
check-up. And it may be, if you can’t take care of her
at home, that she ought to go to a sanitarium or a nursing
home.”

“There must be some other wayl” Julia began to sob.

“Don’t cry, child,” said Dr. Clement. “If the old
lady is . . . odd, it might be the best way all around. She’d
be perfectly comfortable. There’s a place just out of town
run by trained nurses— a series of little white cottages and
very pleasant. There are some old schoolteachers there—
a nice class of people. I could send her to a hospital for
observation, or have a couple of psychiatrists pass on her,
unless she wants to go voluntarily. But don’t worry about
it until I talk to her. And don’t let her know; 111 just
drop in. . . .”

The next afternoon. Dr. Clement came to call. Grandma
liked and admired him. She gave him a glass of sherry
and some homemade cookies.

“You work too hard,” she said. “But I could have helped
witli Mrs. Bronson. She told me what you did for her.”

“I didn’t think you were up to it.”

215

‘Tm as good as I was twenty years ago.”

“I hope you are, but you look . . . peaked. Maybe you
need a good overhauling— a good tonic.”

“Nonsense, never felt better!”

“Well, I’m going to look you over anyhow.”

“If you’ve nothing better to do with your time.”

He listened to Grandma’s he.irt and her lungs. He
asked her questions. And Grandma- sat on the sofa, very
still, like a little girl, and answered everything. Some of
the questions were peculiar, but after all, he was her
friend. When he’d first come to town, she’d thought he
was a fine young man. Grandpa had thought so, too.

She hoped she said the right things. A couple of times
she got so interested in what he was saying she sort of
forgot. . . . Oh, well, he knew her pretty well. He’d under-
stand.

They talked about little things then, people they both
knew, the weather, spring was nearly here . . .

“I see you found your bag all right,” said Grandma
when Dr. Clement picked it up and started to leave.

“Found my bag?”

“Why, yes. Didn’t you leave it at the Plunketts’ out
on Talbot Road?”

“Why, yes, of course,” said Dr. Clement. But when he
was in his car he had to admit that Mrs. Latham was
right. For the old lady was odd when she spoke of old man
Brewster, who had been dead for ten years, and of the
Corning boy having measles when he wasn’t even sick,
and the lost bag. Why, he hadn’t been near the Plunketts’
in a couple of months! Maybe it would be better if the
old lady went to a nursing home. The psychiatrists could
examine her there. He’d make arrangements. . . .

Grandma was in her room when she heard a lot of ex-
citement downstairs. She went down at once to find the

216

family assembled in the living room, and Winnie in tears.

“It's Sid Forrest!” she sobbed.

“So, they found out about him!” said Grandma.

“What do you mean?” Evan asked.

“About the checks and the girl in the bakery shop . .

“That’s not it, Grandma! He eloped with Irene Jessup.
If I’d only treated him nicer,” Winnie wailed.

“Then they don’t know about the checks?”

“What checks?” asked Julia.

‘Why . . . why . . .” Grandma didn’t go on.

“It’s bad enough that he eloped,” said Winnie, “without
your saying terrible things . . .”

“Just forget him!” said her father. “There’s other good
fish!”

“Not in this town!” Winnie sobbed.

“You’re only seventeen! You’re just a child!” Julia said.

Grandma put her arms around her granddaughter and
drew her down on the couch next to her.

“You’ll meet someone else,” she said, “a fine man, you’ll
see!”

“Will he be good-looking?”

“Yes,” said Grandma, “and you’ll be very much in love.”

It wasn’t until two days later that the family found
out about the forged checks.

The very next day Grandma woke up earlier than
usual. She dressed quickly, not in her neat housedress,
but in her best black dress, with a fresh collar, and
Grandpa’s pin to hold it in place. 'There were so many
things to do. . . .

She straightened her bureau drawers, though they were
already in apple-pie order— the pile of clean handkerchiefs;
her collars; her decent, plain underthings.

“What are you doing?” Julia called. She was so wot-

•217

lied about her mother— about Winnie— about so many
things. But there was nothing she could do. . . .

**1 drought rd go over to Mrs. Hodges. Take her a
few things. . . .”

“If you feel well enough....**

“Never felt better in my lifel**

Grandma made half a dozen neat little bundles, her
pearl beads— not real, but mighty pretty; the cameo pin
Julia thought old-fashioned; the bracelet with the onyx orna-
ment. After the breakfast dishes were finished, and she*d
made her bed, she’d give these little packets to some of
her old friends. They weren’t much. She didn’t have much
to give— for she wanted Julia and Winnie to have her
ring and her gold bracelet, her other things. Well, these
would bring a little pleasvue— folks didn’t have too much
pleasure these days.

She was tired when she came home, but not too tired
to help get dinner. She’d had a bite of lunch with Mrs.
Burgess, to whom she’d given her real-lace collar-and-
cuff set. Mrs. Burgess had always admired it, and she
didn’t have a lot, poor thing. Grandma smiled. She herself
always had had nice things; not grand, exactly, but nice
—the moonstone pin Julia liked to wear, the little, enameled
watch Arthur’s wife had given her, and the house . . .
Wouldn’t it be awful to be old and not have things to
give anyone?

In the excitement of finding out about Sid Forrest’s
activities, Winnie had already got over her heartbreak. She
was a bit tragic at dinner, but Grandma gathered she
was rather enjoying herself.

Grandma went to her room as soon as the dishes were
in the cupboard. All of the running around and the ex-
citmnent and all. . . .

•218

She heard the telephone ring and Julia's voice answer-
ing:

'l^r. Clement, you went to die Plunketts’ on Talbot
RoadP And you left your bag there. And you didn’t know
where you left it when you stopped in to see the Coming
boy who had the measles. And then you remembered
what Grandma Quillan had said. I don’t quite understand,
but of course I’ll tell her. She’s gone to bed now, but in
die morning. . . .”

Grandma smiled to herself. So Dr. Clement had found
out about the bag and the measles. 'They’d find out a lot
of things. . . .

’The telephone rang again. This time it was for Winnie.
Her voice was excited and loud.

“Isn’t it dreadful!” she said. “But I’m not surprised at
all. Grandma told me weeks ago what would happen—
warned me! She’s got second sight or something. She can
tell fortunes. She told me I was going to marry a rich,
handsome man and be happy! Sure! Come over tomorrow
and she’ll tell you everything. . . .”

That would be terrible, almost the last straw! Grandma
smiled wryly. But she knew she wouldn’t have to worry
about it. There didn’t have to be a last straw!

Julia and Evan were fine . . . and Winnie, once she got
some sense into her head . . . and Arthur’s family . . . none
of them needed her any more . . . not even Bobby, who
was growing up.

Grandma puttered around the room, arranging things
the way she wanted them, climbed into the old-fashioned
double bed she’d kept for herself when Julia refurnished
die house.

Very carefully, so as not to break them— as if it mat-
tered any more— she put her glasses on the little bed
table, turned out the light and closed her eyes. She was
never one for reading in bed or lying awake at night.

219

She*d always been too tired for that. And then she said
the prayers she’d learned from her own mother, the way
she always said them, “Our Father, which art in Heaven”
and “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

She wished she could have helped them more . . . Julia
and Evan . . . Winnie, with her new idea about fortune-
telling ... all of them ... if there on1\ had been .some
way . . .

She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her
hand. The views from the balloon— the long-ago view of
yesterday, and the view of today, and tomorrow— all began
to merge and grow dim. Grandma gave a long sigh of
relief as she fell asleep. There wasn’t a thing she had
to worry about any more.

•220

ANGIE LEE’S FORTUNE

A ll of Angie Lee’s friends, and espe-
cially the girls who worked with
L her at Blakeley’s are still talking
about Angie Lee and her fortune— and they’ll probably
keep on talking about her for some time. Not too much
happens to the girls who work at Blakeley’s.

It all started the day the girls had lunch at the Witch’s
Caldron. The lunch there is the sketchiest possible. You
couldn’t get less for yovu: money if you made a special
effort in that direction. You get a choice of soup or tomato
juice— both beautifully colored and tasting slightly of some
foreign substance besides water. This is followed by a
plate smeared with a pastelike mixture which contains,
on occasion, bits of chicken, veal, or ham, together with
several slivers of rather brown string beans, and one very
white boiled potato.

Accompanying this are two triangles of bread, their
comers already turned up and dry, and an almost trans-
parent rectangle of butter. For dessert there is a choice
of ice cream, measured with a scoop that must be at
least an inch in diameter, an infinitesimal helping of choco-
late pudding, or a tiny, quivering bit of gelatin.

It’s an excellent place to go if you’re on a starvation
diet— which isn’t the reason the girls go there, at all. For,
after luncheon, you get your fortunes told, for free, with,
of course, just the necessary tip to the fortuneteller.

221

The girls from Blakeley s had had remarkable ludc with
Madame Olga, the fattest of the Witch’s Caldron’s sooth-
sayers. Madame Olga had predicted, with only the slightest
of hints from Pearl Morrison, that her beau, Claude Harris,
would make up with her before Christmas. And what
happened? Well, though Pearl had had no indications in
the world that Claude would even speak to her again,
she’d gone ahead and bought Christni^s presents for him
—gloves, a scarf, and a fountain pen guaranteed to write
for at least three generations.

And when Christmas Eve came and there was still no
word from Claude, Pearl had not lost faith at all. She
had delivered the Christmas box, all wrapped in red, white,
green, and blue ribbons— the blue was a concession to
Claude’s past association with the United States Navy—
to the place where Claude lived; after all, a girl has
got to help the gods.

And that night, right on the nose, Claude had appeared
at the house where she shared an apartment witib Belle
Stuart and delivered his present— a box of radier uncertain
chocolates and a gilt belt which didn’t quite go around
Pearl’s not-too-slim waist. But it was the sentiment. Pearl
felt. They made up immediately, and are going to get
married any day, now.

Besides this, Madame Olga predicted that Rosemary
Strubbe would find something valuable; and not a month
afterward Rosemary, who never in her life had ever found
anything before, found the following items in a small
purse without any address in it: two quarters, three pen-
nies, a four-leaf clover in a plastic holder, an automatic
pencil, a very cute little compact that was good, once
she put a new puff in it and had the catch fixed, and a
nail file.

Madame Olga told Jessie Mallory she’d hear from an

222 *

old friend. Soon after, Jessie got a post card from Robert
Henry, whom she hadn’t heard from in a year, and didn’t
like very well, but the prediction had not included affec-
tion.

The day of Angie Lee’s fortune there were six girls
from Blakeley’s at one of the big tables. Pearl and Rosemary,
who were fiends for future information. Martha Bales,
Amelia Crane, Freda Harper, and Angie, herself. They all
finished their luncheon and waited for the fortuneteller.
And then the blow fell.

The hostess came over to their table. "I noted your
request for Madame Olga,” she said. “But, alas, she is no
longer with the Witch’s Caldron. She has gone to Arizona.”

“You wouldn’t tell us if she was in town,” pouted
Freda. “Now we’ll never locate her!”

“I’m telling you the truth, on my word of honorl*
said the hostess with great dignity and vehemence. “There
was something unforeseen came up in her home town— a
family illness or something.” Before the girls had time to
ponder on the inability of the great Madame Olga to
look into her own destiny, the hostess went on, “But we
have a much better fortuneteller now. All of the girls
are crazy over her. You will be, too.”

“Not Madame Hortense. I won’t have herl Not a thing
she ever told came true!” said Amelia Crane.

“No, this is a new girl— though a lot of our patrons
swear by Madame Hortense. This one just came yesterday.
She really is remarkable. I know' you’ll be satisfied. Her
name is Madame Lucretia.”

The girls looked at each other and groaned. But there
was little they could do about it. They had already eaten
and paid for their luncheon. All that remained now was
to hand the httle slip they got, when they paid, to Madame
Lucretia, listen to her prognostications, tip her as gener-

223

ously as seemed suitable, and hurry back, only half an
hour or so late, to Blakeley’s.

Their first glance at Madame Lucretia was not reas-
svuing. She was a thin, dark little woman, with a jutting
chin and too few teeth. She had some sort of peculiar
accent and rather mumbled her words.

Amelia Crane was first, because her seat was most
convenient for Madame Lucretia. The new ( to the Witch’s
Caldron) fortuneteller spread out some very soiled cards
which she undoubtedly had used in many past per-
formances, glared at them intensely, and then looked at
Amelia’s palm.

“You very sensitive,’’ she said. “I see that. You no like
to have feelings hurt. You give to others and get no
returns.” None of the girls, including Amelia, had suspected
any of this. They looked at one another and smiled. She
was going to be awfull

Madame Lucretia gave forth some pretty banal infor-
mation, and the girls fought against their natural desire
to believe and their doubt of Madame Lucretia’s powers
to look into the future. As a matter of fact, she told little
about the future but kept to rather vague character analy-
sis. Martha Bales grew more and more contemptuous of
the soothsayer’s prowess, and began to giggle and interject
rude remarks long before her own turn came.

Martha was the beauty of the group. Her hair was
more blond, more waved, her eyes larger and more blue,
her mouth softer and more sensuous and scarlet. Besides
this, she had a sweetly rounded little figure and an im-
pudent and confident way with her. Her boy friends, and
they were numerous, often told her she ought to be in the
movies, and she’d made rather ineffectual stabs at getting
movie scouts interested.

224

Perhaps Madame Lucretia lost patience. Perhaps she
actually thought she saw, in cards or hands, what she
said was revealed to her.

“You are apt to be deceptive,” she intoned, toothlessly,
to Martha Bales. “Do not deceive your boy friends or you
will come only to grief 1 You may lose great future happiness
through deception.”

“Don’t you see anything good?” asked Martha, glancing
slyly at the other girls, all of whom envied her popularity.

Madame Lucretia looked at the girl’s wax-doll pretti-
ness. “Oh, you’ll get along all right. But not in the big
way you might have got along if it weren’t for the faults
I just told you about.” Her voice grew low; “You no tell
truth!”

All of the girls smiled and nodded. Truth was not
Martha’s outstanding characteristic. After all, when you
meet a new fellow there’s no use sticking too closely to
facts when the facts are as drab as a family in Corona
and a job at Blakeley’s.

Angie was the last to put out her palm. Now, there
was no getting around it, Angie was nothing spectacular
to look at. She wasn’t exactly plain, because her face
was really rather nicely formed and her eyes were alive
and eager. But her mouth was a trifle on the large side
and she made it up none too well, and her figure, though
rather good, needed better dresses to bring out its best
points. And of course she couldn’t afford good permanents
or the proper washes to bring out the highlights in her
hair. 'The girls all liked Angie, but they just never thou^t
of asking her to go with them on blind dates.

Madame Lucretia looked at Angie’s palm and at Angie.
Maybe she felt she’d been too harsh with Martha. After
all, a fortuneteller keeps her job by foretelling pleasant
things. Or maybe she felt sorry for Angie. Or maybe she
really thought she saw something. Anyhow, she closed

225

hex eyes, sucked in her breath, and said, Mrith greater
animation than she had shown, *1 see a fine future for
youl Nothing more to worry aboutl A fine husbandl A
great and unexpected fortune.”

"You mean I’ll marry a rich man?” asked Angie, who
had never known a rich man in her whole life.

"Oh, no, you’ll marry a poor man, but die fortune will
be sudden and unexpected, and surprising in every way.”

“It certainly will be surprising,” §aid Angie.

"Will the man marry her for her money?” asked Mardia,
laughing again.

“Oh, nol” said Madame Lucretia. “It is true love, two
hearts coming together!”

“How beautiful!” said Martha.

Madame Lucretia gave her a cold look, rose heavily, for
one so tliin, and left tlie table. The fortunes were over.

Angie couldn’t help but be quite set up by the fortune,
even while the girls teased her. She wondered if Madame
Lucretia really meant what she had said. And if she
did mean it, could she mean Hugh Johnson?

For a year now, ever since she’d come to work at
Blakeley’s, Angie had had a secret passion for Hugh. It was
so secret, in fact, that Angie hardly admitted it to herself.
She wouldn’t have let the girls find it out for worlds;
they would have teased her unmercifully, and Hu^ mi^t
even have found out how she felt.

Hugh didn’t look like most girls’ idea of a glamour boy.
In fact, there isn’t a single movie star whom he resembled
in any way, though Angie had the illusion that if he were
taller and his hair were darker, there might have been just
a trifle of a resemblance to Jimmy Stewart. It was resem-
blance enough to make her rush to every picture in which
Jimmy Stewart appeared, even to the reissuing of his old
films at the neighborhood playhouses.

Hugh was a radier shy and quiet yoimg man who

226

worked in the accounting department. It is quite possible
that none of the other girls even noticed him, for certainly
none of them ever mentioned him or made their usual
advances. Hugh lived with his mother and sister in Astoria.
His mother was not strong and his sister’s job was one of
those half-time and half-paid affairs, because she had to
be at home a lot with her mother. All of Hugh’s small
salary was needed at home, so even if he had had any
desire to shower attentions on any girl it would have been
impossible.

Angie knew about Hugh and his family. She’d got out
the facts, bit by bit, when she saw him at Blakele/s or
when she met him on the street, not quite by accident,
and walked to the store or to the subway, depending on
the time of day, with him. He was swell, Hugh was! He
always had something pleasant and cheerful to say. One
day they talked about books, and not a week later Hugh
brought her a book to read that he’d got out of the library.
She didn’t have to read it quickly, either, because he still
had over a week’s time on it.

One day they met at a nearby cafeteria. They were
both late to lunch, so Angie hadn’t been able to go with
the other girls. 'They picked out things together, laughing
over their mutual tastes in food, and then sat at the
same table. Hugh wanted to take Angie’s check, but she
wouldn’t let him.

"It isn’t as if you’d invited me to have a meal widi
you,” Angie told him.

"I see what you mean,” said Hugh. “I wish I could eat
out more. 'There are so many places I read about in the
newspapers that I’d like to try, but my sister always has
dinner ready for the three of us when I get home.”

Angie knew what he meant. For Angie had to give most
of her money home; her father didn’t do too well, and her

007

brother Bill was married and had his own family to look
after now.

Curiously enough, Angie lived in Corona, too, though
she and Martha didn’t live very close together. And Hugh
in Astoria— right in the same part of New York’s suburbs.
Funnyl Three separate lives. Working all day at Blakeley's
and living in the same section of Long Island— and not
actually touching one another at ah. Anyhow, that’s what
Angie thought at the time. Heaven . knows, she wanted
her life to touch Hugh’s, but she didn’t know what she
could do about it. She often found him looking at her.
And they’d smile at each other. She sometimes thought
that Hugh went out of his way to see her just as she
knew she went out of her way to see him. But when the
obstacle is money and a mother to support and a sense
of responsibility, there doesn’t seem any way to jump over
it

In spite of the predictions of Madame Lucretia, Martha
had a fine time. She always had a better time than any
of the girls at Blakeley’s. If, in retelling her adventures,
she added a bit of color and excitement, none of them
knew or cared. Even vicarious thrills were better than
none at all. All of them enjoyed Martha’s visits to the
Latin Quarter and the Stork and the Copacabana,
even while they wished that they might be going in her
place

None of the girls even wondered at the fact that
Martha’s escorts were forever changing or that none of
them ever seemed to consider matrimony. Going to night
clubs and the theaters and seeing famous people, the way
Martha did, seemed quite enough. Certainly better, as far
as they were concerned, than if Martha had married and
disappeared altogether.

Martha didn’t tell them about meeting Mr. Pigge,

•228

though she didn’t even know his name imtil their last
date. His name was so terrible she didn’t even believe
it was his own. No man is named Figgel Or is he? In the
second place, he was neither young nor glamorous. In
fact, Mr. Pigge was quite old.

She just happened into the hotel lobby, the way she
so often happened into it, looking, she hoped, for all the
world like a girl waiting for her date to show up. She
walked around, always keeping pretty close to one spot,
and glancing at the wrist watch that Mr. Halliday, who
long since had passed out of Martha’s particular sight,
had given her Christmas before last. It had worked before
and it undoubtedly would work again. Pretty soon some
young man would say, “Looks as if your date’s stood you
up.” And Martha would smile her prettiest and say. “It cer-
tainly looks that way, doesn’t it!” And the young man would
say, “Well, isn’t that an odd and pleasing coincidence?
I’m without a date, too. What about having a drink with
me?” Then Martha would look coy and say, “I wish I could,
but I don’t drink with strangers.” The answer to that was:
"But I’m not a stranger. Just try me and see!” Or some-
thing like that.

They’d go into the bar for a drink, and, likely as not,
she’d find out the man was from out of town and lonely,
and they were all set for a pleasant evening. Sometimes
even for more than one evening.

The date with Mr. Pigge wasn’t like that at all. Martha
looked at her watch for a full half-hour, in one hotel. And
then moved on to a second hotel and did the watch trick.
Nothing doing! Not a single man with an invitation! Next,
she went into a bar, as if she were expecting to meet
someone there. All right to do occasionally, but not too
often in one bar. Still no invitation; just stares, and not
too pleasant ones.

229

She walked into the lobby of die hotel and stood diere,
just about decided to go home, dateless, when this old
man appeared in front of her. She hadn’t even noticed
him. He was so old his shoulders were bent and he sort
of trembled. He was nearly bald, and what hair he did
have was white. He was not Martha’s idea of a date at all!

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but Tm very lonely,
tonight, and it would be most kind of you if you would
honor an old man by dining with hiin.”

Martha wasn’t used to such language— sort of slow and
elegant, and yet almost as if he were being sarcastic. She
wanted to say, “How dare youl” But she didn’t have a date,
and what did she have to lose?

“Say, that will be all righti” she said, and smiled.

She couldn’t tell if the old fellow had money or not;
he wasn’t dressed very well, but, on the other hand, he
wasn’t poorly dressed, either. Sort of decent, she guessed.

“Have you any preference as to where we dine?” he
asked.

She said, no, anyplace was all right with her.

“I know a very nice place I think you’ll like,” he said.

She felt that this would be a tip-off, but the place he
picked out didn’t tell her a 'great deal. It was on a side
street in what had evidently been an old brownstone house
and, like the old man, it was only a little shabby. And yet
the prices were terribly high. The food, she knew, was
good, though it wasn’t exactly die kind she liked. But,
from past experience, she knew it was the sort you were
supposed to like, sort of odd-flavored, but all right.

The old man asked questions, but not in a prying way.
She started to make up things, the way she usually did,
and then she thought, why bother? She wasn’t trying to
pull a fast one on him— just an old man who had asked
her to dinner.

“I live with my family in Corona— that’s on Long Island,”

230 -

she said. *We haven’t any too much money, but we get
along all right.” That was certainly truel Then she told
him about Blakeley’s, and got quite a laugh out of him
when she told about the girls. Funny, what some people
think is amusingl After dinner he said, ‘1 know you will
forgive me if I don’t escort you home.”

"Sure; that’s all right,” said Martha, who hadn’t the
least idea in the world that he was even thinking of taking
her way out to Corona.

"Will you honor me by dining with me a week £rom
tonight?” he asked.

“I’d be delighted,” said Martha. “I’ve had a very enjoy-
able eveningl” She could act elegant, too.

“The same place, then?”

"Yes, indeed,” Martha said.

He gave her five dollars for taxicab fare, which sur-
prised her. She thanked him nicely when she accepted it,
but of course she took a subway train home.

She didn’t tell the girls about the old man. Certainly
not! They’d think she was losing her charms, having to eat
with an old codger like that. Oh, he was all right— didn’t
get fresh or make advances or anything— but why start
letting them think she’d do such a thing? So, tire next
day, she told all about her dinner, describing the man
as young and handsome, a replica of the man she’d really
had dinner with two days before.

The next week she met the old man again. She had
decided that if a better date came up, she’d take it, of
course, but nothing else came up. So there she was, only
five minutes late. And there he was— holding a little flower
box.

The box contained funny-looking little yellow flowers.
She’d rather hoped for orchids. But the dinner was good—

231 *

an Italian restaurant this time. Again five dollars for a
taxicab, and another date for the week following.

“I don’t get itl” Martha thought. “I never came up in
front of anything like this before. He hasn’t got the least
bit fresh, but he’s bound to be up to something. I guess
I’d better watch my step, maybe not see him any more.”

It was kind of silly to see him. But the dinner was
good and there was always that taxi money. . . .

She met him the next week and -after dinner he took
her to a concert. That was awful! Long, long pieces of
music by just four men. A string quartette, he said. She
wouldn’t put up with much more of this!

As a matter of fact, she did put up with only one
more date, and even that surprised her. The last time
there was just dinner.

“Do you know, we’ve never even exchanged names,”
said the old man. “I should have told you my name long
ago, but it seemed such a pleasant adventure, as it was. . . .
My name is Pigge, James C. Piggc— spelled, P-I-G-G-E.”

Martha had to laugh. She couldn’t believe that was
really his name! She wondered why he bothered with
names at all.

“My name is—” She hesitated. Why tell that old man
her name? He must be up to something, asking her name
after he’d bought her four meals, stretched over that many
weeks. What if one of her boy friends or the girls at the
office knew she’d been out with the old bird, after all of
the glamour dates she’d told them about?

“My name is Angie Lee,” she said Let Angie get the

blame, if anyone did. Angie, who didn’t have enough guts
to get a date of her own, but was always sort of mooning
around.

"What a nice name,” said the old man— Mr. Pigge! “Old-
fashioned and quaint. It quite suits you! Angie Lee!"

232

Was he kidding! Martha Bales old-fashioned and quaint!
That was a laugh, all right.

He made a dinner engagement for the next week, but
Martha had found a younger and more interesting admirer
by that time, one who wanted to date her that very night,
so she stayed far away from the hotel lobby.

A week later she thought of him, and went by the
hotel, just in case. She’d apologize and say that her mother
was ill if, by any chance, he was there. He wasn’t there.
She never saw him again. She thought of him a couple of
times and had to laugh— those dull dinners with that old
man! She didn’t need a meal that bad! Not for years, any-
how! Younger and more interesting men came along. She
put Mr. Pigge entirely out of her mind. . . .

And then it happened. The office was in an uproar.
Pearl and Amelia rushed over to her with the news:

“The letter just came— registered mail! For Angie! It’s
the most thrilling thing you ever heard! An old man left
her fifteen thousand dollars in his will!”

“What old man? What do you mean?”

They didn’t know much. Just what the letter said. Angie
was taking the afternoon off and was going to see the
lawyer. Just some old man Angie knew— though she couldn’t
remember him very well in the excitement— and it was
actually fifteen thou.sand dollars! They had seen the letter!

The ne\t day, and the days that followed, all of the girls
knew all about it. A certain Mr. James C. Pigge, seventy-
eight years old, had died in his home in Seventy-sevenA
Street, and he’d left a will. And in it was one paragraph
that was devoted entirely to Angie Lee:

“To my young friend, Angie Lee of Corona, Long Island,
business address, Blakeley’s, who is as charming and quaint
and old-fashioned as her name, I leave fifteen thousand
dollars in memor)' of her kindness in cheering up a lonely
old man.”

233

That was all! The girls chattered like mad about it: <
“The tax was paid by the estate. That was in the will,
too, farther on. All bequests were to be paid net, tax free,
so she gets the whole fifteen thousand dollars.”

“What did you say the man’s name was?” asked Martha.

“Pigge! Can you beat iti James C. Piggel A very rich
old man, it seems— and no family. Left a lot of money to
charities and servants and his secretary and to people he
didn’t know very well.”

"What!” said Martha. “Piggel”

“Did you know him?” asked Rosemary.

“Know him! I’m the girl he left die money to! I mean,

I am the one who knew him! I had dinner widi him time
after time—”

She tried to make it sound convincing, but she knew
it didn’t, even as she said it.

“How you go on!” said Amelia. “Snap out of it, kid!
Angie’s money has gone to your brain. Seventy-eight years
old, they said. You’re always saying you wouldn’t look at
a man over thirty-five. When Mary Woodrock got married
last year you said she was marrying her grandfather, and
Jesse was only forty-one! You never told us anything about
any old man you went out to dinner with.”

Martha faced Angie. "You never knew any old man
named Pigge,” she said.

“I— I guess I did,” said Angie, who was thoroughly con-
fused by this time.

“You guess you did— my eye!”

“I mean, I knew a lot of old men—*

“You did kindnesses to them, I guess.*

"Well, lots of times I’ve helped old men across streets.
Or— or talked to them on busses.”

“And they’d give you fifteen thousand dollars for that, I
suppose.”

“It looks that way. They say one old lady gave an usher

234

-thousands and thousands because she used to get her seats
at the movies every week—”

“How do you think Pigge found out your name?”

“Oh, there are ways, I guess.”

"And that you live in Corona and worked at Blakeley’s?”

“That’s no mystery. Everybody knows that who knows
me, I guess.”

Martha tried to tell the truth, and not a soul would
listen to her. She went to one of the restamants where
she had dined with the old man and tried to get some-
one there to identify her, but no one remembered seeing
her at all. They didn’t even remember seeing Mr. Pigge.

She found out the name of the law firm handling the
estate, and went in to see them.

The office was full of worn black leather chairs and
superior, suspicious old men. They saw no reason to think
that Mr. Pigge had made a mistake. They couldn’t believe
that it was a case of mistaken identity. After all, the
description, “charming, quaint and old-fashioned,” didn’t
seem to suit Martha Bales very well, while it did describe
Miss Angie Lee.

“But I am the girll” she screamed at them. “I gave
Angie’s name just— just for funi I’m the girl he meant to
leave the money to.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to bring more substantial proof,”
the oldest man said. “We have talked to Miss Lee and her
family. We are quite satisfied.”

And that was that! There wasn’t a thing Martha could
do about it.

Angie wondered if Martha was telling the truth. Some-
times she almost thought she was, though all of the girls
laughed and laughed and told her not to pay any attention.
After all, there wasn’t a single day that Martha hadn’t

235

told exactly where she’d been the night before, and had she
ever talked about seeing an old man named Figge?

As time passed, Angie remembered more and more
occasions when she’d been kind and thoughtful to old men.
Why, of course! And she continued to be.

At that, she had other things on her mihd besides think-
ing about old men.

“I guess you’re going to leave ’Blakeley's,” Hugh said,
after things began to settle down a little.

“Not at all,” said Angie. “I’m going to stay ri^t here.”

“I thought— with all that money—”

“No, I’m going to put some of it in a house for my
father and mother to live in, and the rest—”

“If something like that happened to me,” said Hugh,
“it could make so many other things happen. Now you’re
farther away from me than ever.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, I had hoped that, someday, things might get
a little better, and maybe we could go places together
or— or maybe things might change— but now you’ve got the
money—”

“I don’t sec how that is going to hurt anything. It ought
to help instead,” said Angie. “I’m buj'ing a two-family

house. Mavbe vour mother and sister . . .”

✓

They talked about it, that night, in the same cafeteria
where they’d eaten before. It all seemed quite possible.
If Hugh knew that his mother and sister were taken care
of, there wasn’t a reason in the world why he couldn’t
feel free. And if Angie’s mother, who had a lot of time,
really wouldn’t mind . . . Why, then Fred’s sister could take
a full-time job and there’d be enough money, if they lived
in the two-family house. It looked as if things might work
out all right. . . .

Martha left Blakeley’s. 'The girls kidded her too much.

236 *

Besides, there were a lot of other places to work, places
where there were nice young men, not awful goons like
that Hugh in the accounting department.

After she’d gone, Rosemary suddenly thought of the
fortuneteller at the Witch’s Caldron. She rushed to the
other girls. “Don’t you remember what she said— Martha
was deceptive— and she certainly was, making up tiiat she
had been the one who knew Piggel The ideal And Angie
coming into a fortune, and now going steady with Hugh
and all! Why, Angie Lee’s fortune came true!”

They rushed over to the Witch’s Caldron at noon,
taking the new girl, Susan Clafflin, with them. 'They could
hardly wait until the meager lunch was finished. As soon
as they’d eaten their skimpy desserts they paid their bills
and got the slips that entitled them to have their fortunes
told. They called for the hostess.

“We’d like Madame Lucretia!” they all clamored at
once.

“Madame Lucretia!” The hostess was puzzled.

“Sure!” explained Rosemary. "You know, we all had her
after Madame Olga went away. A little old lady— not too
many teeth. Don’t tell me she isn’t—”

“Oh, I know who vou meHn! Oh, no, she’s not here.”

“She’s not!”

“She stayed only a couple of days. 'That’s why I didn’t
know who you meant. None of the girls liked her. Said she
was cross and just muttered a lot of stuff— never did tell
them what was going to happen in the future.”

“She was swell!” said Amelia, forgetting that they hadn’t
liked her at all at the time,

“There’s a new one,” said the hostess. "Madame Juliet.
Uses a crystal ball. Everyone thinks she’s wonderful. HI
send her over as soon as she’s finished with the two ladies
she has now.”

'They waited, thinking silently, each one, diat probably

• 237 *

it was no use. They wouldn’t leam about the future from
Madame Juliet. They probably wouldn’t leam from anyone.
And yet-look what had happened to Angiel They were
still young. Their whole future lay ahead. Anything could
happen! And maybe, each thought, maybe this is my dayl

• 238 «

THE MISSES GRANT

O NE of the compensations of time is
that, if you wait long enou^ you
begin to hear the end of stories. So,
.just the other day, I heard the completed history of the
Misses Grant— though I had thought 1 knew all about
them when I was very young.

They were called, alternately, the Grant girls and the
Misses Grant. I can’t really imagine that they were ever
young, though both titles seem to be an assumption of
youth. When 1 was a little girl they seemed old. And,
even in those days, they lived on the edge of town,
although there were several other houses near by— and
similar to their own. Huge and very ugly early Victorian
houses, brave with lace woo^ ornamentation around die
porches, unnecessary and useless cupolas or more elegant
mansard roofs.

There had been an effort, when the Grant girls really
were young, to make that part of the town very “stylish,"
but nothing ever came of it, and the town devdloped in
the opposite direftion, toward the river.

The Grant gills belonged to one of the town’s oldest
families— and they were the last members of it. They were
aloof, superior, disdainful, proud— and very poor. Their
parents had died many years before, and an older brother,
a black sheep, had been killed in a shooting scrape in the
wrong part of town. Now there were just the two of

•239

them left, and they lived all alone, except for an old
Negro servant.

"Poor, but proud," the townspeople said. And smiled
a bit patronizingly as they said it. The other old families
were indulgent enough and respected the Grant girls’
peculiarities. The newer families, living in neat little cot*
tages and doing their own housework, rather sneered at
the sisters, partly because of the way they lived, but,
most of all, because they kept a s’^rvant. So poor— and
yet they couldn’t do their own housework! You always
saw the servant when you drove past the old house. She’d
be working in the garden or cleaning the steps or sweeping
the long open porch. And the newer people, seeing her,,
didn’t like it at all.

My grandmother used to take me to see the Grant
girls, occasionally. We would drive out for tea, and on the
way out Grandma would caution me. "When tea is served,
take only one cake! You know, people like the Grant
girls can’t afford to fill up a growing girl like you. When
you get home you can have some of the pecan cookies,
if you’re a good girl.”

There were several other families we visited in town
where I got the same warding, so I understood. Anyhow,
the tea cakes were never veiy good— sort of hard and
tasteless, so I didn’t mind 1 laying ('iily one of them.

The house had the musty smell I’ve always associated
with old Victorian houses. The furniture was carved rose-
wood and the haircloth sola was so sleek that 1 had a
hard time not sliding off it. Tliere was a little worn red
velvet chair that I liked best of all and I usually sat there.
In front of the fireplace was a black velvet screen painted
with cattails, and the walls were covered with a faded
tan and gold scrolled paper.

Miss Matilda was taller than Miss Althea. Otherwise
they were about the same. Neat, thin, little old ladies.

240

They always wore black dresses, with lace collars cau^t
in front with large gold brooches, and they wore their
hair neatly parted in the center widi little buns twisted
behind. They had thin hands which they used a lot in
aimless movements.

The talk was nearly always the same and I grew
restless before the end of the visit. The Misses Grant
would deplore the fact that Family no longer counted
in our town. Why, when they read the society columns
in the newspaper they scarcely recognized a single namel
All of those new Northern people with money, moving in
and spoiling things! For their part, they never expected
<0 recognize socially a' single one of those new families.
The fact that the new families owned all of the best
houses and the new shops and factories and had organized
a country club and a commercial club and had built
motion-picture houses and a i^ew theater and were having
a mighty pleasant time of it never occurred to them.

The Negro servant, very neat iri^a black dress and white
apron, with a big bow behind— like all of our Negro ser-
vants— brought in the tea and the cakes and I always
remembered to take only one and to say a polite, "No,
thank you!” when they were offered to me again. And
there was more talk about how our town was going to the
dogs socially, with no one to keep up the town’s traditions.
And then Grandma and I would leave, promising to come
very soon again. Grandma had known their mother, and
was very acceptable as a member of the town’s right set.

On the way home, we’d talk about them. And my grand-
mother, who was a very wise woman, would say, "You
see, they haven’t had much out of life— and all they have
now is their pride. It may be their own fault, but we can’t
decide who is to blame— we have to humor them a little

241

Pride isn’t an easy thing to live with when there is nothing
else to go with it.”

As I grew older, I rather forgot about the Grant girls.
There seemed to me so many more important things to
think about. Wanting to write and go to the city and want-
ing to have a good time and be popular with the boys.
And thinking about Life. 1 wrote and I dreamed and 1
had a good time. Then I actually did get to New York.
And beyond sending them Christmas* notes— they thou^t
cards were in bad taste— I put the Grant girls out of mind
until the other day, when I learned what happened.

The Grant girls had continued to live in the old houses
And that part of the town became less and less important
—for it was flat and ugly out there. Arlington Addition,
with all of its neat little cottages, grew out south of the
town. And the big, new houses were built on the river.
And the factories, put up by the Northern capital the
Grant girls despised, were built out on the west side. So
on the north side were just the deserted houses that once
had been grand— and the old house where the Grant
girls lived.

As the sisters grew older, the house took on a haunted
look, even while they made futile efforts to keep it in
repair. It needed paint— but they didn’t have enough
money to paint it, so the once-whito house became faded
and gray, and the roof was black and uneven. But Aey
kept up appearances as well as they could. The Negro
servant could still be seen taking care of the flowers or
sweeping the porch. Or, as you drove by, ybu might see
her brown face peering out of the window.

Fewer people went to see the Grant girls. The new
people— not so new any more— thought of them as eccentric
old ladies. Members of the old families remembered to
call once in a while, but memory played tricks when there

•242

were no rewards except listening to the snobbish com-
plaints of two self-centered old ladies and having a cup
of weak tea and a stale coolde.

Dr. Bristol called to see Miss Althea. He was one of
the newer and younger doctors, and he went there only
because Mr. Ballard, the grocer, asked him to go. "They
haven’t a telephone,” Ballard said. “Miss Matilda stopped
my delivery boy, who just happened to be going out that
way to some people who have a farm a couple of miles
from there— hadn’t passed there in weeks— and said they’d
like a doctor. If you’d stop in—”

* So Dr. Bristol stopped in. He was young, energetic,
forward-looking. He worked hard. And he resented idle
old ladies who had never done a useful thing in their
entire lives. Most of all, he admitted later, he resented
the servant.

“My wife was doing all of her own work,” he said. "And
with three children and my hours, she had her hands full.
Those old ladies never did a lick of work in their lives,
and I’d heard they were always talking about Family and
about their servant!”

Dr. Bristol couldn’t know aSout the Grant girls’ pride
—and the fact that having a servant was so important to
them— the last outwaid sign of position and standing that
was left to them. Having a servant meant, to the Grant
girls, that they still had affluence, were still Southern
ladies. Only people like my grandmother could have told
him— and no one told him at all.

So Dr. Bristol treated Miss Mthea. She ju.st had a bad
cold. He told her to be careful and left a bottle of tonic
and some vitamin pills. He stopped in, a couple of times
after that when he happened to be passing, and found
them all right— that is, as right as they could be— two frail
and proud old ladies and a disdainful Negro maid.

243

When the storm came a lot of people in the country
suffered. Roofs leaked and children and older people, too,
caught colds and influenza. Dr. Bristol had his hands full.
It wasn’t until everything was peaceful and in hand again
that he thought of the Grant girls. He didn’t approve of
them, but he was a good doctor, and they were old and
not strong. So he drove out to see them, making a special
trip, for there was no one within miles of the old house
any more. The farm people had m(.''ed into town for the
winter, after the storm.

He found things far worse than he had expected. Miss
Althea opened the door for him— and he saw that she wa,s
ill. And Miss Matilda was so weak she couldn’t even sit
up in bed.

Dr. Bristol told me his bit of the patchwork that made
up the lives of the Misses Grant, when I last visited my
home town.

"I did what I could for them,” he said. “If they had
been stronger I could have got them to the hospital right
away, but Miss Matilda was too weak to be moved. As it
was, I gave them some shots and waited. But I didn’t have
enough medicine with me— and I couldn’t take a chance
and drive back, leaving them alone in their condition. If
they had had a telephone, it would have been an easy
matter to have got an ambulance or a nurse and the
proper medicine. As it was, I heated water, did what I
could.

“You’ll have to send the maid over to ^^anson’s. He
is the nearest neighbor with a telephone,” he told Miss
Althea. “It’s not an easy trip— but she ought to be able to
make it. I can’t leave Miss Matilda. It’s lucky I’m here.
She’s got a chance if I stay, if I can get the right drugs
for her. You can’t go. Miss Althea! You’re in no condition

244

for that walk! Could’t possibly make it! Sending your
servant is the only way— the one chance!”

Miss Althea looked at him. Didn’t answer. He thou^t
she didn’t understand. He repeated the demand.

Miss Althea shook her head. Then held it high. The
Grant pride! “The servant can’t go!” she said. “I’ll go,
instead.”

“Your going is out of the question! Sending that old
servant is the only solution. What have you got her around
for, if she can’t go on an errand at a crucial time like diis?
She’s here— I know that. Some people saw her sweeping
the porch, just the other day.” He didn’t tell her how the
people had laughed at the old sisters and their servant.

“The maid can’t go!” Miss Althea’s face was pale, but
her head was held high.

“You don’t understand . . .”

“I understand well enough. That’s settled,” she said.

Dr. Bristol shook his head when he told me this. “There
she stood! Proud. Stubborn. No explanation at all. She
said the servant couldn’t go and that was that. I didn’t see
the servant. Guess she had seiye enough to stay out of
my way.”

“I did what 1 could for them,” he said, ‘"rhen I had to
lea\'e. I had other sick people to look after. I came back
as soon as I could make it. But it was too late. Miss
Matilda died two days later. We got Miss Althea into a
hospital in town— and she lived for a month— frail and
weak. She hadn’t had the right nourishment in months—
and after her sister died, she lost interest in things. If they
had let us knou' thev didn’t have any money and how

V r #

things were we could have sent visiting nurses or got
them a warm room in town. Frankly, there’s always been
something 1 didn’t quite understand. The servant’s dis>

• 245 *

appearing when we needed her— and the sisters’ never
letting on how poor they were.”

If Grandma had been there, I think she could have
made it clear to him. But I knew I couldn’t make him see.
I wouldn’t have understood, myst'lf, if Grandma hadn’t
told me so -much about the Grant girls and pride a long
time ago.

I didn’t even need the final bi('— though it did finish
the patchwork— the pattern of the Grant girls and their
teas and their servant and their talk about keeping up
position and Family.

I was having tea with Mrs. Gerrard. A large tea, with
plates piled high with beaten biscuits filled with slices of
“old” baked ham, and little cakes syrupy with honey and
full of butter, spices and pecans.

We talked of the town. Of the new people, and the
parties they gave. And of the few old families who still
remained and who were marrying so rapidly into the newer
families that, before long, not a single' old family woeild
remain.

"You heard about the Prant girls?” Mrs. Gerrard asked,
finally.

“Yes, Dr. Bristol told me they had died,” I said.

“Poor old soulsl 'They died as they lived, clinging to
what was left of dieir position and dignity,” she said.

“You mean being there alone, and not asking for help?”

“Partly that. Outw'ardly that, anyhow. As far as Dr.
Bristol and the town knows, anyhow.”

“There was more?”

“One thing more. A thing we had to let them keep.
Something they’d worked so hard for. You know what
having a servant meant to them?”

Yes, I knew. I nodded. “A symbol.”

246

*lt wasn’t until— afterwards— that we found out. We
never told. I wouldn’t tell you, except because of your
grandmother, you’re Old South and will understand. I
went there with Rose Mitchell. We had to put things in
order. And there— in a drawer, we found— a pitiful little
bundle. A box of something they’d used to black tilreir
faces. An old maid’s dress. An apron. A bandana.
From the road, if anyone looked in, it seemed as if they’d
had a servant.”

“Later,” Mrs. Gerrard went on, “I found out from my
own Molly that Emily, the old eolored woman who worked
for them, had died months before. Think of those poor old
things, taking turns blacking their faces, so that the world
would think . . .”

"And the world didn’t care. And they died.”

“They’d probably have died, anyhow, before too long.
Wasn’t it better— I think they would have thought so, any-
how— not taking charity? And keeping up what they thou^t
was their position, the big house and a maid to wait on
them. Pride . . .”

247 <

FUR FLIES

M ISS CAROLYN dipped her firm, cool
fingers in fragrant cream and mas-
saged and kneaded my face with vig-
orous and rhythmic strokes. I’m not sure that visiting a
beauty parlor actually does anything constructive to my
face, but it does do something to my morale. I’m lapped
in luxury and given a sense of well-being and a hope drat
maybe, just maybe, I’ll look a little better. Surely all that
is worth the price of a treatment— with Miss Carolyn’s con-
versation as lagniappe.

The Emily Deane Beauty Salon isn’t the largest in New
York, but it gets its share of the estimated $600,000,000 that
American women spend each year on cosmetics and toilet
preparations. It has seven floors devoted to body treat-
ments and face treatments, with exercise and massage and
baths and lamps and rollers, permanents and bleaches and
rinses, all prettily awaiting you on its various floors. There’s
a restaurant with fruit juices and raw vegetables and other
things that are supposedly good for you. And a shop where
the creams and handbags and negligees and perfumes are
not good for your pocketbook, but may be good for your
soul. The whole thing is a glitter of mirrors and chro-
mium, with thick, off-white rugs and pale walls and match-
ing curtains pulled across windows to cut off the cruel
daylight. On each floor are miniature treatment rooms as
luxurious as a boudoir of a courtesan in the court of Louis

248 *

XVI— and far more convenient and sanitary. Each regular
customer asks for Miss Hazel or Miss Carolyn or Miss Joan,
or one of the other attendants, each a skillful masseuse
with trained fingers— and with a soft voice trained, too,
to encourage the sale of the more expensive creams and
lotions.

“Your skin,” said Miss Carolyn, “is looking a whole lot
better. By the time you’ve used about one more jar of that
Rose Leaf Cerate . . . you use it every night die way I
told you?”

“Oh, yes,” I said.

“Well, it’s helping you. And I’m smoothing out the lines
around your mouth. You’ve no idea . . .”

I had no idea. But it was nice, lying back in that com-
fortable treatment chair in that luxurious cubicle.

“There’s been a lot happening here,” said Miss Carolyn.
“We lost a good customer— and I’ve got a plot for you— about
a mink coat.”

“Now look,” I said, rather mumbling my words so as
not to get a mouthful of fingers and cream, “don’t tell me
that old plot about the woman who gets a mink coat from
her lover and doesn’t want her husband to find out about
it, so she pawns it and giv'es^him the pawn ticket, and
he brings her home an old rat fur and she goes to his
office and finds his secretary has the new mink coat.”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Carolyn. “It’s nothing like that.
What happened here about the beautiful mink coat and
how w’e lost a customer is entirely different. But what you
told me— that’s a good story', too.” Punctuating her con-
versation with new soothing daubs of creams and astrin-
gents, Miss Carolyn went on with her story.

This started months ago. About six months ago, I guess.

249

The first thing 1 knew this Miss Everts came here for
treatment Miss Evelyn Everts. A pretty name! She was
kind of a tall girl and had a lot of brown hair which she
wore combed high. She wore a little too much make-up
when she first came here, but she got that toned down
before long.

She wasn’t young, exactly. But not old, either. In her
early thirties, I should say— and sure she could pass for
25. That type. But we don’t get miny young girls here,
except on the First Floor, where they pick up the new
lipsticks, or in the Shop, where they buy little funny things
to wear in their hair. Or maybe on the Fifth, where they
go to take lessons in make-up for the street and for the_
theater and TV. They’re alwa>s piling in early in summer
to get leg lotion and to learn what to do about sunburn
and what lipstick to use when their skin gets tanned. But
young girls, really young ones, unless they’re in show busi-
ness, don’t bother too much about beauty salons. So Miss
Everts was as young as we get them, regularly.

I didn’t take care of her much of the time. When a
new patron comes in, who doesn’t look as if she had too
much money, she gets one of the new girls. So she got
Miss Phyllis, who gives a«very good massage— I let her
massage me when she has the time.

Well, this Miss Everts didn’t even look as if she could
afford the treatments, but there she was, paying for a
course of eight treatments in advance, and starting a new
course as soon as the last one was over. Private treatments
—she didn’t want a class. She didn’t have the whole thing,
just body and face massage. But she didn’t need it a lot;
she was just a little tired looking, but I guess she wanted
to look her best.

And she certainly did start to improve. 'This isn’t a
plug for Emily Deane— don’t get me wrong! The treat-
ments were just a drop in the bucket. It was just every-

250

thing about her. When she first started, her clothes were
cheap and not in too good taste. Sort of flashy. But
each time she came she wore something a little better.
At the end of a couple of months she was wearing sleek
little black Hattie Carnegie models, or Bergdorf Goodman
tailor-mades and John Frederic and Sally Victor hats. And
she changed, gradually, from big junk jewelry to pretty
good costume jewelry and then to the real thing— Cartier
or Tiffany. You can spot them in a minute. We couldn’t
help noticing and talking about her. It was pretty obvious.
She was quite a girl, after a while. She carried herself
better. More assurance. And got a sort of a smug smile
.on her face.

We didn’t like her. I don’t know why, exactly. She
tipped just right. Not too little and not too much. At first
she asked a lot of questions, but always about how to look
better. And after a while, when I guess she thought there
wasn’t anything we could teach her, she got pretty hi^-
hat and upstage on us. The elegant society lady dropping
in from the Social Register for a bit of going over. But
you could tell she was a phony, even if you hadn’t
watched her change. Some of the most wonderful ladies
I know wear shabby, five-yeaf-old suits, and just come in
for the smallest jar of cream. One of my old customers,
who is a real ladv if I ever saw one, can’t afford the
cheapest treatment, and whenever she comes in for a
bottle of astringent or even a lipstick, I tell her I got to
demonstrate a new cream or something like that and give
her the works. It makes her feel good. You can spot a
lady in a rftinutc— there are a dozen signs.

This Evelyn Everts didn’t have one of them. She was
snippy to the girls, who couldn’t answer back. And she was
sort of cross. And kind of hinted that she wasn’t getting
her money’s worth. And always dropping a line on where
she’d been the night before: the opening of a show, or

251

the Stork Club, maybe. We don’t gel around so much, but
we all get to nice places, too. And our customers— say—
they about populate the smart places, so hearing Miss Everts
pipe up with her second-rate brags didn’t help a whole lot.

We figured out, right from the start, that some man was
paying for all this. That wasn’t exactly hard to do. She’d
started without much and here she was with, as she must
have eyed it, the works. Good clothes, jewelry, massage,
the best night places. She had a new’ apartment, too. We
had to hear about that. Small, but done by an interior
decorator. Can’t you just see it?

And, obviously, the man wasn’t a fiance, or she wouldn’t
have got the apartment before marriage; she’d have waited,
and gone to housekeeping with him. And she’d have told
us about him, and sported an engagement ring. She was
that kind. And she wasn’t married. You can tell that in a
minute. And she wasn’t a young executive who was mak-
ing good. You can spot them, too. They ask questions,
intelligent questions, and they’re grateful for what you do
for them, and very considerate and smart.

Miss Everts had caught a man, and she was making
the best of it. We felt pretty sorry for him. You could just
imagine the line she w'as *^ulling— being so elegant and
seductive and sort of superior. Making him think he’d won
a prize. Not that it was anything to us. We don’t care how
our patrons get their money, just so they have it. But it
was interesting to watch her. Being so smart aleck because
she’d caught a man. We figured he must be pretty good,
at that. Generous. And sort of easy— to put up with her
and not see through her at all. And not too bright- for she
certainly couldn’t have got anyone who was too clever.
And not too young— they act different when they’ve hooked
a young man. Married, undoubtedly— or she’d have got him
to marry her. Maybe she had that in mind. She was always
sort of hinting at what was in store for her, preparing a

252

grand future for herself. She got sleeker and smoodier
and harder by the minute. And all we did was to give
her what she paid for, and sort of throw up our hands
and say “That onel” as she went out.

I’m glad all of our customers aren’t like that, I can tell
you. They wear you out. Selfish. Gimme girls. Mrs. Howard
was as different from her as day from night.

I didn’t see Mrs. Howard when she first came in, but
I guess she didn’t change so much the first few weeks.
Miss Dora had her. Then Miss Dora went to Chicago,
and I gave her a massage and after that she asked for
me. She was sort of shy, then, and almost embarrassed.
She wasn’t used to beauty salons and said so, and telling
the truth about things like that never did anyone any
harm. We can always spot them, anyhow.

Mrs. Howard was about 45, and she looked every day
of it. Her hair was sort of mixed gray and her figure was
dumpy. Not fat, just pudgy. And her clothes were too
awful to describe. Matronly— that’s the only word I can
think of. The sort of thing the saleswoman wishes on you
in a good neighborhood shop. Expensive enough, but no
taste or distinction; though, wi*h her figure, nothing would
have looked too well on her. Her skin was rough and sort
of dead-looking. And her lipstick was entirely the wrong
color, and she kind of smeared it on.

When a woman like that hits a spot like Emily Deane’s
there are only a few reasons. A younger man has fallen
for her, which is unlikely, unless she’s a rich widow. Or
somebody’s* left her a fortune, and that’s unlikely, too,
unless she tells about it; folks ahsays want to tell about a
fortune. Or her husband has fallen in love with another
woman and she wants to get him back— the routine reason.
Or her children think she’s dowdy and put the pressure
on her.

253

It wasn't a fortune with Mrs. Howard. We gathered
that from the way she talked. She’d always had money,
even if she hadn’t exactly known what to do with it. Her
one son was married and living in California, so it wasn’t
the pressure of the children. And she wasn’t falling for a
younger man, because she wasn’t silly and ridiculous; you
can spot that type. So— come to your own conclusion. We
did— and with no help in the beginning from Mrs. Howard.

She didn’t come in just for an occasional treatment. No,
indeed! She asked for the works, and that was what she
got. I don’t see how a woman of her age could take it,
but she did. She got massaged and pummeled. She took
the passive reduction treatment and lay there patiently^
while we gave it to her. She had lamps and roller treat-
ment, and cabinet baths, and special baths, and exercises.
Those exercises are no fun— bending and rolling. The pad
you roll on is silk-covered, but it’s liard work, I can tell
you. Mrs. Howard came in practically es’cry day, and she
certainly was a good sport about it. She ate rabbit food,
and didn't cheat by putting away French pastrj' on tlie sly,
the way a lot of women do. She was always patient and
good-natured and sort of apologetic for putting us to all
that trouble. It was what *.we were paid for, wasn’t it?

She was fairly generous with tips, too. And awfully
nice about it, as if she appreciated what we were doing
for her and- sorry because she didn’t metamorphose into
a beauty.

At that, she got along pretty well. At the end of
six weeks, in a bathing suit and standing on tiptoes, she
didn’t look like a girl of 16, but she certainly looked a lot
better. Her face looked more alive and her .skin was smooth
and soft. Anyone who gets all of that massage and exer-
cise and diet is bound to improve. Her muscles began to
harden up and the fat began to disappear and she held
herself better. She had her hair cut and had a good

254

permanent and had the gray hair touched up. We got our
best make-up man to teach her to make up, though she
never did it quite like an expert and giggled over it like
a girl. But in the end her eyebrows were no longer invisible
and she used a dittle rouge and didn’t put it on in the
middle of her face like a patch, either, and she learned
to use a brush to put on her lipstick and got her mouth
into a very nice shape. She didn’t look young, exactly.
We couldn’t do miracles. But she looked years younger
and sort of alert and fit. Modem.

We found she did all sorts of charities, thou^ she
didn’t talk about them. But she was always giving the girls
.tickets to benefit theatrical performances, and her name
was on the patroness list. Things like that.

"You know who her husband is, don’t you?” Miss
Blanche seid. We didn’t know. Well, he was with a big en-
gineering firm; important, too, though not famous, exactly.
Miss Blanche knew the name, because the name was on
a list at a show she took her cousin to, and her cousin was
an engineer. Tlic Howards were very well-to-do. Not mil-
lionaires. exactly, but a good family and they always had
money. Not society at all. Just “backbone of the nation”
stock. We knew the Howard# had money, the way Mrs.
Howard spent it on treatments. And we were awfully glad
she was getting sometliing for her money.

She began to dress better, too. Not the way Miss Everts
had changed, from cheap things to high style. But clodies
that were better in material and line. She obviously was
going to good shops instead of patronizing a little neigh-
borhood place. She still was conservative, but her clothes
were correct and in good taste. Pretty smart-looking, in
a sort of right, middle-aged way. And not trying to be
young, either. She still wore her old coat, a Persian lamb
that had seen better days, but even with that on she no
longer looked out of place when she came into Emily

255

Deane's. We all felt pretty proud— sort of as if we’d manu-
factured her.

Proud of her— and worried, too. She would smile at us,
very friendly and all that, but when she didn't think we
were watching her she looked sad. As if-she was worried
about something.

I was the one who found out "/hat the trouble was.
And I wasn’t even fishing for informai’on. I was giving her
a treatment. And she said, “iMiss Carolyn, is there anything
else I can do— to look better, I mean?”

I told her I thought she had just about gone the limit.

“Just keep on using your creams,” I told her— we’re,
supposed to sell as much cosmetics as possible, and of
course those she uses, for an older skin, are the most
expensive.

“Oh, I do,” she said. “Just the way you tell me. But
there must be something else!”

There wasn’t anything else. She was thinner and
straighter. And her skin looked fresh. And she sure was
vounger-looking. But her face sort of puckered up and I
thought she was going to cry. And then she closed her eyes
and her face got smooth agflin.

“I— I may as well tell yon,” she said. “It’s my husband.
He’s— he’s interested in— in a younger woman. I don’t know
that I blame him. He’s worked hard all of his life. He— he
deserves a little recreation. But until about a year ago he
was so devoted. I— I love him a great deal.”

She said it very simply, and my heart got sort of all
jumpy. I wanted to help her but T didn’t know what to say.

“I guess I did sort of let myself go,” she went on. “But
you see, he had, too. We’d just sort of begun to get old
together. Neither one of us thought of anyone else. ’That
is, I never did and I don’t think he did. He was home
every night; we never even had a vacation apart from

256

each other. We liked the same people and did the same
things. Not very exciting things, but they were enough for
me, and I took it for granted they were enough for him.

“But they weren’t, you see. He met this girl . .

“I see,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“He hasn’t asked for a divorce,” Mrs. Howard said.
“That’s the best part of it. But I’m afraid he will, any
minute. I won’t offer him one, but if he asks. I’ll have to
let him go.

“When I first found out, I didn’t know what to do. I
don’t now, really. But I did all of the things I’d heard
about women doing to get their husbands back. I— I tried
to develop myself mentally, though I really hadn’t let
myself go in that way. I read books and go to lectures.

“The trouble is, my husband didn’t read books or go to
lectures. I think it bored him when I mentioned them.
In fact, it bored him more and more— no matter what I
said. I’ve never bothered him with household details. We
gave up our house in town a few years ago, when our
son married, and went into an apartment and we didn’t
go to the country this year because he didn’t want to. I
know now why he wanted to stay in town. He used to
play golf and he doesn’t care that any more. He doesn’t
like any of the things he used to like. Our old friends bore
him, and my charities, too. He stays away from home
three or four nights a week and doesn’t give me a word
of explanation.”

“Doesn’t he think you look well?” I asked. “Didn’t your
iinpro\'ing your looks help at all?”

I could, see tears in her eyes, and not from the cream.

“That’s just it,” she said. “He doesn’t look at mel As
far as he is concerned I’m invisible. And if a woman is
invisible it doesn’t matter if she has lost a few pounds or
has had a permanent or a new' dress.”

“Isn’t there something . . .”

•257

“I’ve tried everything.” Her voice quavered. “He just
doesn’t see me at all. He listens when I talk, because he
has to. He’s polite, in, well, an impersonal way. It’s as if I
just weren’t there.

“I guess he’d like it better if I went away. But— I don’t
want to go away. I don’t want to lose him, you see.”

I gave her face an extra-hard treatment. I didn’t know
anything I could tell her. When she tipped me, when she
was ready to go, she said, “Please t^rget what.J’ve told
you. I just had to tell someone!”

I told her it was all right, that I was always hearing
life histories. And that’s true enough. The stories I hear . . .

Well, she went on with her treatments, and looked ,
mighty well, but still sad-looking, so I knew nothing had
happened at home.

And then something did happen. In the Salon.

A couple of us were standing at the desk on the Fifth
when Miss Joan rushed up.

“Have I got news!” she said. She was always bristling
with bits she’d picked up here and there. The Walter
Winchell of Emily Deane’s.

“Give out!*' I said.

‘Well, I found out about Mrs. Ben Howard!”

I sort of bit my lip. Was Mrs. Howard beginning to
break, spilling her story all round the place?

“Her husband is in love with Evelyn Everts! How’s
that for news?”

“What do you mean? How do you know?” we asked.

Miss Joan sort oi smiled mysteriously. But after we
begged hard enough she told us. It was simple enough.
Mrs. Howard had asked just one question:

“Does a young lady named Miss Evelyn Everts come
here?”

258

“Is that all?” I askc'cl. “Maybe she knows her or some-
thing”

But I felt it was more than that.

“Is that all? Isn’t that enough? We’ve been wondering
about both of •them, and never connected the two. It
fits together like pieces in a picture puzzle.”

“But maybe there’s nothing to it . . .”

“No? Just wait and see.”

We waited, and we saw. A week or so later Mrs. Howard
asked one of the other girls what hours Miss Everts came
to the Salon. And of course we all knew the sixty-four-
dollar question in no time at all. News travels faster dian
by carrier pigeon in a beauty salon. And, if that didn’t
clinch it, the very next time she was there, on her way
out, Mrs. Howard asked the girl at the desk to change
her regular time so she could be there when Miss Everts
was in the Salon. When that happened we all looked at
each other and nodded. And waited for the fireworks.

I don’t know what we thought would happen. Some-
one could have lied and told Mrs. Howard that Miss Everts
didn’t come to the Salon, though my hunch is that Mrs.
Howard Iok'w about Miss Everts’s visits, maybe even be-
fore she started coming heaeelf. She Vnight even have
chosen this place because Miss Everts came here. Mrs.
Howard had great patience. I.ook how she kept up with
her course of e\ei\-ise.s and diet and treatments. Some-
one else could have lied about the time of Miss Everts’s
visits. But no one lied. And there was Mrs. Howard com-
ing at the same time. Mi.ss Everts was there. We held
our breaths and waited.

And nothing happened at all!

Miss Everts sailed in, smooth and sleek and superior
and hard. A bit more arrogant than ever. Full of the
shows .she’d seen— especially when it was almost impossible
to get tickets— and of the famous people who'd been at

•259

the Stork Club. Well, obviously she didn’t know about
Mrs. Howard, though I don’t believe she’d have cared if
she’d thought Mrs. Howard got there at nine o’clock and
stayed until closing time just for a glimpse of her.

And Mrs. Howard came in and worked hard at her
exercises and took the baths and the treatments. And
that’s all. Oh, she did one thing morel She asked Miss
Phyllis to point out Miss Everts to her. And Miss Phyllis
pointed!

And there you are! Nothing happening— and all of us
practically breathless.

The only indication that anything was going on was
something Mrs. Howard said to me. I was giving her a ,
massage.

“Do you think my hair would look well with an up-
swept coiffure?” she asked.

And that was the way Miss Everts wore her hair! I
wanted to explain that the worst thing a woman can do
is to copy the Other Woman, especially if the Other
Woman is years younger, though this time it wouldn’t have
mattered, anyhow. Hadn’t she already told me that, to her
husband, she was practically invisible?

“Your hair looks fine tke way you wear it,” I said.
"An upsweep is for, well, younger women. It can be quite
aging. You look best the way our stylist arranges your hair,
short and softly waved.”

She sighed.

‘T just don’t know what to do,” she said. “You don’t
know what it is, sitting home, night after night, alone.
Or going to bed, and lying there not able to sleep, know-
ing that your husband is with someone else. If— if I didn’t
care so much about him . . . he’s my whole life, you seel I—

I don’t know what to do!”

I felt pretty sorry for her. But there it was! It had
happened before. It will keep on happening. I sighed,

260

partly in sympathy and partly for relief. She wasn’t going
to do anything, then! But of course a sweet, gentle little
woman like Mrs. Howard wouldn’t do anything!

The others breathed easily, too. Some with relief, and
some in disappointment. We couldn’t stand Miss Everts.
And we all liked Mrs. Howard. But what could we do
about it? What could anyone do about it? You see, we
didn’t know Mrs. Howard.

Miss Everts would sail in for her treatments. And Mrs.
Howard would be there. And, sometimes, when Miss Everts
went from her treatment room to take her special bath,
Mrs. Howard, who timed things pretty well, would be
where she could take a peek at her. One time, when Miss
Everts was taking her bath, Mrs. Howard walked right over
and looked in her dressing room. And no one stopped her.

And still nothing happened. And we decided nothing
would. And we were all disappointed, even if we didn’t
say anything.

Then Miss Everts got her mink coat. I told you there
was a mink coat in the story. It was a beautiful coat,
soft and supple and full, that ranch mink shade that looks
better than sable, with grea> big push-up sleeves and a
wonderful ripple back. It certainly was beautiful, that coat.
It was so lovely that Mi.ss Everts didn’t have to brag
about it. Just sailing in. wearing that coat, was bragging
enough.

She hadn’t worn it in more than a couple of times
when Mrs. Howard saw the mink coat. I guess she couldn’t
help but compare it to her worn Persian lamb, with its
fitted, old-fashioned cut. Mr. Howard obviously wasn’t
being too generous with her, these days, even if he did
support her and she had enough money for salon treat-
ments.

An odd look came into Mrs. Howard’s eyes when she

261

saw the coat. That was all. Her expression didn’t even
change. I watched.

But a funny thing happened. Not that day, but the
next time Miss Everts and Mrs. Howard came in for treat-
ments, Mrs. Howard kept her eyes on her wrist watch.
And in the middle of her massage she got up and went
to the door of her treatment room, and stood there. Soon
Miss Everts left her treatment room. And Mrs. Howard,
her face full of cream and with the plde pink treatment
sheet around her, went into Miss Everts’s room. I watched
her.

She took the mink coat down from its hanger, and held
it in her hands. I didn’t know what she was going to do.
Surely she wasn’t going to destroy that beautiful mink coat.

She didn’t do anything at all! That is, she hung up the
coat again, came back, lay down in the treatment chair—
and I finislicd her massage. She' didn’t say anything at all,
but there was a curious expression on her face. I’d have
looked a whole lot different if I had a hiisl)and and he’d
done a thing like that . . .

No one else had seen that incident and I didn’t tell
anyone about Mrs. Howard examining Miss Everts’s mink
coat. I’m not Miss Joan or Walter Winchcll, either. If it
gave Mrs. Howard any satisfaction to hold the coat her
husband had bought for another woman . . .

The next time Mrs. Howard came in for her treatment
she looked even more peculiar, sort of nervous. Her facial
was the last part of her treatment, and I’d hardly got a
good start when she stopped me.

“If you’ll wipe off my face,” she said. “I just remem-
bered an engagement . . .”

That was an odd thing to say. No woman remembers
an engagement in the middle of a beauty treatment. And
Mrs. Howard was so patient and steady and dependable.
But of course I wiped the cream off and patted on the

262

astringent. She barely waited for it to dry. She jumped
«ut of the chair and put on her make-up. And in spite of
her hurry, she sure did a good job. She’d learned. It was
automatic now. Pretty nearly.

She put on • her dress and hat, then took down the
Persian lamb coat and held it on her arm, and stood at
the door of her treatment room. And waited. Quietly.
Patiently.

Pretty soon Miss Everts and her masseuse— it was Miss
Hazel that day— went out of her treatment room to Miss
Everts’s special bath.

Mrs. Howard stood there just a minute. And then, very
quietly and with great dignity, she went into Miss Everts's
treatment room. There were three people standing at the
desk in the middle of the central room from which the
little treatment rooms open. They watched Mrs. Howard.
But no one said anything. Or did anything.

Mrs. Howard stood very still in Miss Everts’s room. And
then she put back her head. And there was a curious
expression on her face. Almost a smile.

And she took Miss Everts’s lovely mink coat down from
the hanger. And she put it on! She slipped her old Persian
lamb coat on the hanger. And she left the treatment room.

Wearing the mink coat— and wearing it quite as if it
belonged to her— she came up to us, standing there by
the desk.

"Don’t worry!” she said. ‘Tou won’t get into trouble
over this. It’s all right. Tell Miss— Miss Everts that I took
the mink coat.”

We stood there with our mouths open, not saying a
word. And Mrs. Howard took the elevator and went down
to the Main Floor and out of Emily Deane’s, wearing the
mink coat.

We were practically beside ourselves waiting for Miss
Everts to get back. In spite of Mrs. Howard’s words we

263

were worried. Would we get arrested for allowing a
woman to escape with stolen property? What would
happen?

Miss Everts sailed into her treatment room. A minute
later she let out a yell. And then she st^pmed out to us.
There were six of us, now, and we tried to look innocent.

“My mink coat! It’s been stolen!” she shrieked. “Some-
one took it and left this lousy old thii'g . . .” She held the
Persian lamb coat at arm’s length.

Miss Joan spoke up. She certainly has courage, that
one. Or maybe she likes a scene. Her voice was low, almost
caressing. As if she were recommending the most expensive
cream in the whole Emily Deane line.

“Why,” she said. “Mrs. Howard— Mrs. Ben Howard, you
know— came in just now and picked it up. She said to tell
you . . .

I didn’t know there were so many four-, five-, and
seven-letter words in any vocabulary. Miss Everts’s educa-
tion had far exceeded Mr. Webster’s amateur efforts. The
things she said! We had to smile after a few minutes of
listening to her.

Finally she stomped bacjc to her treatment room, got
into her clothes. She put on the Persian lamb coat. It
was pretty cold outdoors. And she stomped over to the
elevators. Well, anyhow, she didn’t say anything about
having us arrested.

Miss Everts never did come back to Emily Deane’s,
though there were still two treatments that she’d paid
for in her last course and hadn’t used. I told yen we lost
a customer.

“What about Mrs. Howard?” I wanted to know. Miss

264

Carolyn had stopped my massage and was wiping the
cr^m from my face.

“I’m coming to that,” she said.

“We were all pretty worried about Mrs. Howard. For
three weeks we didn’t see her at all. We thou^t we*d
lost another customer and we were dying to know what
had happened. And then, when we’d just about decided
we’d never know about it, she sailed in, pretty as you
please.

“I mean she looked better than I’d ever seen her, in
spite of the fact she hadn’t had a treatment in all that
time. And she’s at the age where she ought to keep them
ap.” Miss Carolyn gave me a telling look; I’m apt to neglect
my treatments.

"What did she say?” I asked.

“Well, she didn’t say much at first. Sort of shy. She’s
tliat type. Didn’t talk until I had the massage well under
way. What we didn’t know was that she’d looked at the
coat that first time especially to see the label. Then she’d
telephoned the furrier and said she was speaking for Mr.
Howard— to find out if her husband really had bought
the mink coat. She didn’t wantjto get arrested as a thief,
you see. Well, Mr. Howard had bought the fur coat, all
right. She knew that when she took it.”

“But what happened?"

“Well, she knew her husband Was coming home to
dinner that night. So she waited until she was sure he’d
be at home. And came in, wearing the mink coat. And
she told him what she had done. Imagine! He never
even knew she knew Miss Evcrts’s name! I don't know
how she found that out in the first place, but it’s easy
enough if you put your mind to it.”

“What did he say?”

"Well, Mrs. Howard said that, at first, he was mad as

265

blazes. She'd rather expected that. And she’d been afraid
that maybe he'd throw her out.

“And then, suddenly, he began to laugh. He laughed
and laughed, Mrs. Howard said. More than he'd laughed
—in front of her— for a long time. I gpess he thought it
was pretty smart of her. And it showed him how much
she cared, too. And for the first time in months he actually
looked at her. And she was looking pretty good. He never
knew she had that much spunk. And for the first time in
ages they had something to talk about. He admired her,
I guess.

“He was going South on a business trip. So he took
her along. As soon as she got back she came in for ^
treatment— didn’t want to neglect herself, now that she
had her husband back. And that beautiful mink coat and
all . .

“That’s a wonderful story. Miss Carolyn,” I said.

“Oh, it’s all right. That story you told me about a mink
coat is all right, too. I guess nearly every mink coat has
got a story tied up in it. Mink seems to be that kind of
fur.”

She touched my cheek Tlie astringent was dry.

“If you don’t use Rose Leaf Cerate every night,” she
said, “I really can’t promise . . .”

“All right, get me another jar,” I said.

266

MRS. WILSON’S HUSBAND
GOES FOR A SWIM

O N THE FIVE-FIFTEEN going from Ncw
York to Willow Dell, Edgar Wilson
looked—and was, for that matter— the
average commuter. One glance at him— no one gave him
more— and you knew he caught the 8:20 in the morning,
worked hard all day, probably at a desk job, and hurried
to the comfortable security of his home at the very same
time every night.

If you had pursued your thought of him, which is
unlikely, you probably would have decided that he bought
a new and inexpensive car every two years, took care of
his own furnace in winter and bis own garden in summer,
listened to the radio, watched television or usually fell
asleep over a book or magazine or the newspaper in the
evening, had various local social activities, mostly during
week ends, and ver)' occasionally went into town for a big
night. You might have guessed that he had a couple of
children, for whom he did the best he could and whom
he adored.

You’d have been wrong only on the last count. Edgar
Wilson was childless. And, of course, by looking at him,
you couldn’t have known about Minnie. You couldn’t have
guessed about her.

Edgar Wilson was quite a nice-looking man, in an

267 *

unobtrusive sort of way. His hair was beginning to recede
and had already gone into peaks on his forehead. Ale
didn’t carry his shoulders too straight. His heart had been
too weak for active military service; but he felt ill effects
from it only when he tried to run upstairs. When he was
nervous, he bit his fingers.

Now, as all the others were doing on the evening train,
he read his paper and glanced occasionally out the window.
There were faint signs of spring. Trees showed pale pin-
pricks of green along their branches. The air was still cool.
Edgar was wearing a topcoat and needed it; but, before
long, it would be warm enough to work in the garden and
go for a swim at one of the public beaches. Swimming w^s
his greatest pleasure. By closing his eyes, now, he could
almost feel the freedom that the ocean brought him: the
long expanse of sand, even when it was thickly dotted
with other humans; the great waves of the sea, darkly
green with feathers of white; and the beautiful, far-off
horizon.

Before the train reached Willow Dell, Edgar had tucked
his newspaper into his coat pocket and was waiting for
the train to stop at his station. He got out, nodded to a
couple of other commuters, turned toward Pelton Street.

As he walked, a change came over him. Unless you
had known him well, you wouldn’t have noticed it. Edgar
himself was not aware that anything happened to him.
His shoulders slumped a little more. His step, quite con-
fident as he left the train, became unsure. He was quite
nervous as he went up the steps of 22 Pelton Street, his
home.

Certainly the house was nothing to be afraid of. It was
a cheerful enough dwelling, the middle one of three just
alike. Yellow stucco, with an open, grinning porch. Edgar’s
own choice would have been a little white cottage, farther
out in the country; but this was Minnie’s selection. “I

268

certainly don’t want to be on the edge of nowhere, with-
oiA^^ny neighbors around,” she had said.

Edgar put his key in the door. As he entered the hall,
he heard Minnie’s voice.

“That you, Ed?” Minnie always asked that. And always
just that way.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, ungrammatically, as he always
did.

Minnie was busy at the stove, as Edgar knew she
would be. No matter how sketchy her dinners, she was
always at the stove when he came home.

“How are you, Minnie?” Edgar asked, trying to make
^is voice sound friendly.

“I’m all right. How do you expect me to be? Hanging
around here all day.”

“You didn’t go out?”

“Where was there to go? Every time I go into town
and try to buy a few things for the house, you complain
about the money I spend.”

“Why, I don’t, Minnie. I just thought we didn’t need
new lamps.”

“I know. I go into town and buy a couple of lamps
for the living room. And you talk and talk. And here you
are— complaining about them again.”

“Tm not complaining, Minnie. I just thought—”

“You’re always ‘just thinking.’ Why, you’ve already
taken all the pleasure out of the lamps, as far as I’m con-
cerned. Other women get things for their houses, I notice.”

“Maybe other men make more money.”

^‘Of course they do! That’s just it! 'That’s one of the
things I mean. Other men aren’t afraid to ask for a raise!”

“But I told you, Minnie, this isn’t the time—”

“It’s never the time. Last year it was one thing. Now
it’s something else. Other men have the courage to ask
for a raise, and get it, too. 'The way I keep after you.

269 *

trying to make you ambitious! Ever since we were mar-
ried I’ve kept after you; but it doesn’t do a bit of ^j^d.
I’ve asked you again and again to bring your boss out
here and let me talk to him. But, no. I’m not good enough
to meet your boss.” ^

“It isn’t that, Minnie. It really isn’t. But I know how
he feels.”

"Little you know about men. *^f I could talk to him—”

Edgar shuddered. Hawkins, his boss, was really a very
fine fellow. But difficult. Neurotic. Spoke in a slow, hesi-
tant voice. Liked to talk for hours about his symptoms.
Could eat only certain things. Had all sorts of allergies.
Just the kind of person Minnie couldn’t— and wouldn’t—
understand. One conversation with Minnie, and Edgar felt
he wouldn’t have a job at all. His boss respected him,
paid him all he was worth. Why not let well enough alone?

Edgar went upstairs. Took off his coat. Looked out the
window. Yes, it was spring. Before long he’d go to the
ocean— all day on Sundays.

Minnie’s voice, too high, whining, broke into his
droughts. “Why don’t you come down? You were lute.
Dinner’s all ready.”

He hadn’t been late. But there was no use arguing with
Minnie. “I’m coming,” he said.

The dinner, like all of Minnie’s meals, was sketchy.
Edgar ate without complaint. For a while there was silence.
Then Minnie started in with her day’s activities. The
butcher had been rude again.

"Why don’t you change butchers?” Edgar asked. It
seemed a simple solution.

“You would say that!” Miimie’s voice was shrill. “I walk
clear to the end of Dunham Road, to save money. All the
butchers in Willow Dell charge more than city prices, and

270

you know it. 1 guess you’d like steak every night. But
wl^n it comes to paying for itl”

“^ut there must be some around here. What do other
women—”

“Other women! ^Other women! I try to save money by
going to a cheap butcher who insults me, and all I hear
about is other women. Sure, I’d like filets and sweetbreads
from the best places, too. Just ring up and charge! But
who’s to pay the bills. I’d like to know? Not you! Not on
the amount I get to run the house!”

“You get all I make, Minnie. You know that. Why, the
bank account is in your name as much as mine. You know
that every cent—”

“Every cent! Cent is right! It takes all my planning and
scraping to keep that cent in the bank! Do you think I
like cheap chopped meat?”

Edgar didn’t answer.

“Do you think I do?” Minnie pmsued. “Do you think
I like staying out here all day while you’re in town? Do
you think I like—” Her complaining voice went on and on.

Edgar knew better than to try to stem the tide. He
used to try. Once he used to ask Minnie what she did
all day— for, when he came homg after a day in the city,
the house hadn’t been dusted or the bed made. Always
she was evasive. Always there was a tirade. He gadiered
that she read the tabloids, listened to the radio, watched
television, or just wasted time doing nothing. Once he
asked her why she didn’t join the Red Cross or other local
organizations. There were always reasons why she couldn’t.

For dessert there was lemon pie. Purchased, of course,
at the local pastry shop. If Minnie ever had known how
to bake, she had never given Edgar a sample of her ability.

“Good pie!” said Edgar. He liked coffee with his dessert,
but never got it. Minnie felt that drinking coffee at night

kept her from sleeping. So she never made coffee for
dinner.

As always, Edgar helped Minnie clear the table. Dried
the dishes as she washed them. It never occurred to him
that he’d done his day’s work, that he had earned freedom
from this task. He really didn’t mind the dishes.

When the kitchen was in order, he went into the living
room, stretched out in the big ihair, began to read.

Minnie fiddled with the television.

“Oh, it’s Thursday,” said Edgar. “I think there’s a
speech on at nine.” He looked for the program in his
newspaper.

“I won’t listen to a speech,” said Minnie, "and I won’t
listen to a news commentator. We ought to have some
music some of the time in this house. Something pleasant
ought to happen once in a while.”

Edgar didn’t answer.

Minnie fiddled some more, found an orchestra. “Unless
you’d rather go to the movies,” she said.

“I thought there wasn’t anything you wanted to see.”

“Well, there isn’t, really. Tomorrow night—”

“We’ll go then.”

“Aren’t you the dandy! Of course we’ll go then. I’ve
already asked the Frederickses in later, for drinks. I’ve got
to have some kind of life.”

Edgar couldn’t stand the Frederickses. Joe Fredericks
had a loud, unpleasant voice, and he got foolish after two
drinks, and Mrs. Fredericks was a silly little nitwit. But
Minnie liked them. They were one of the few couples she
got along with. Poor Minnie! Maybe she didn’t have much
of a life.

His head ached. The TV blared.

‘Turn down that TV,” he said. Perhaps, without mean-
ing it, his voice was loud, above the music.

“Don’t yell at me!” shrieked Minnie. “I stay out here

•2V2

in this hole of a suburb all day and see no one and expect
a little companionship. I have dinner all ready for you,
and you fuss at me all during dinner. Then you close up
like a clam, as soon as dinner is over, and now you yeU
because I want a ^ttle music. I’ve got to have some Idnd
of lifel”

“I didn’t mean to yell. But it hurts my ears. I’ve got a
headache, Minnie.”

Minnie turned from one station to another, producing
a series of squeaks and blares and voices. Finally she
settled down to a murder mystery. Edgar tried to read.

Minnie’s voice brought him to himself with a start.
“There you go,” she said. “Sleeping with your mouth open,
and the evening just starting.”

“Sorry,” said Edgar and shook himself. He lit a cigarette
and tried to read again.

“Nothing ever hap^ns,” Minnie began again. “This
isn’t any life!”

“Please don’t get started on that, dear.”

“What shall I get started on then? It’s my life. All the
life I’ve got.”

Edgar could have reminded her that she was the one
who hadn’t liked living in a cit}* apartment, that she had
insisted on moving to the suburbs, so that she’d get in
with people. But this didn’t seem the time to tell her about
it.

“Pretty soon,” said Edgar, “the weather will be warm
enough to go to the beach.”

"The beach, the beach— it’s all you care about.”

“I thought you liked it, honey.”

“Once in a while, yes. But I have to do all the work,
fix the lunch—”

"We can buy lunch just as well, if you’re satisfied with
hot dogs and things like that.”

“But all we do is sit, and you go in the water a few

273

times. I get so hot and tired when we go to the beach.”

“Its something to do,” said Edgar. He didn't dare say
how much it meant to him— the feeling of being easy^and
free and looking far out, into something greater than he
had words for.

Minnie fiddled with the television, turned it off finally.
“Might as well go to bed,” she said.

They turned out tlie lights, wen • upstairs. There wasn’t
a dog to put out. They’d had a nice dog, a cocker; but
he’d been run over. Minnie said she’d never have another
dog— too much trouble and hair all over the furniture. Min-
nie didn’t want children, either. When they’d first mar-
ried, she was afraid. And then tliere wasn’t money
enough, she said. Oh, well!

They occupied a double bed. Minnie didn’t believe in
twin beds. “Too many couples get separated that way,”
she said. But never explained just what she meant. Edgar
was always afraid to turn over, for fear he’d wake her.
Luckily Minnie slept soundlj^, though she never admitted
it. Funny, thought Edgar, how people are ashamed to say
they sleep well.

Minnie was fussing at* little things as she got ready for
bed. Edgar, who had got into bed quickly, looked at her.
She certainly didn’t look anything like the magazine pic-
tures of women about to get into bed. Poor Minniel She
really didn’t have much. Married to him, and not getting
along very well with people, and all.

“Coming to bed soon, dear?” he asked, as gently as he
could.

“Yes, I’m coming to bed.” Her voice was crosser than
usual. “Sleep and eat! With me doing the cooking and
making the bed. It’s all there is to do.”

“Minnie,” said Edgar, and he tried to keep his voice
calm, “if you’re really unhappy, maybe we ought to sep-

274

arate. I’ve told you that. I do what I can; but if we can’t
get along—*

“There you go again. Trying to get away.”

“Not at all,” said Edgar, “only if you—”

“Well, you won’t get away. I promise you that. I’ll never
give you cause for a divorce— not here or anyplace else.
If you left me. I’d see that you paid throu^ the nose,
or you’d end in alimony jail. There are jails for men who
don’t pay alimony, you know.”

“Minnie, I’m not talking about a divorce.”

“You’d better notl And if you run around with anyone—”

“I’m home every night, as you know. I thought that was
what you were complaining about. I never look at another
woman. I couldn’t spend a cent on her if I did. You know
where every cent I have goes. Right into the bank the
day I get it. What more—”

“Then stop all this talk about separation. I’ve seen too
many women alone— nobody wanting them around.”

“But you’re not satisfied. And you’re always saying you
could get someone else.”

“I guess I could,” said Minnie complacently. “What
you’ve done once you can do again.” She laughed, her
unhumorous laugh with no fun it. “You’re no bargain I
guess; but I married you. I guess I’ll make the best of
it. I’m stuck with you.”

That was settled. Edgar knew there was no use bring-
ing it up again. Though, at that, he had never thou^t
definitely of a separation or a divorce. He knew Minnie
wouldn’t let him go. He didn’t seem to have enough energy
or will for fseedom to <lo anything about getting away.
All he wanted was peace. A little happiness. Goodness, he
worked hard. As hard as he could. The trips to the city.
Hours in the offiee. Cheap lunches in little lunchrooms.
All he wanted was peace and quiet. And when summer
came, the beach.

Minnie turned out the light. Got into bed. Edgar felt
her pulling the covers comfortably around her. Timidly
he put out a hand, patted her shoulder. Maybe, after^this,
she’d feel a little affectionate.

He sighed just a little. “Good night, Minnie,” he said.
And said his prayers. And lay there a long time, trembling
in the darkness. His eyes filled with tears, and he was
ashamed of his weakness. He knew how Minnie felt about
wanting more to life than this. He wanted more. So much
more. What could he do about it? He tried all the time.
Well, when summer came. . . . Finally he fell asleep.

Edgar awoke as usual. As usual he bathed and shaved
and hurried down to breakfast.

“I think I’ll go into town and look at rugs,” Minnie
said.

Edgar gulped his coffee, didn’t want to start a quarrel.

"I know we can’t afford a new rug,” Minnie went on.

“You know our finances as well as I do.”

“You bet I do! But the living room looks awful. I’m
ashamed— humiliated— when anyone comes in. 'That old rug
we brought from the apartment. Everyone else has broad-
loom, all one color. Is it disking too much to want a home
you’re not ashamed of?”

Edgar knew better than to remind Minnie she had
worked before she was married— worked and hated it. That
she undoubtedly could get a job and buy the furnishings
she wanted. He’d gone through all that too many times.
He wiped his mouth on the paper napkin. He put on his
topcoat, took his hat.

“Good-bye, Minnie! Have a nice day,” he said.

He waited on the Willow Dell platform for the 8:20,
spoke to the other commuters, as usual. Wasn’t this a usual
day?

He bought a paper and read it all the way to town.

•276*

Then he caught a subway to his office, the way he did
every morning. In his office building he hurried to the
elevator, nodded to the elevator man, said “Twelve,"
though surely the man ought to know by this time/vhere
he worked.

He glanced around casually, in the elevator, as he
always did. And it wasn’t until a long time later that he
knew that this morning was different from the hundreds
of mornings that preceded it.

There was a girl in the elevator. As far as he knew,
he’d never seen her before. She wasn’t a child, exactly—
maybe in her middle twenties. She had a fine, serious face
ayd nice eyes. And brown hair, almost straight, but just
curled up a little at the ends. Just the kind of girl that
was in this kind of elevator every day. No more worthy
of notice than he was worthy of notice. She was not very
tall, and she was very slender. And her coat was dark
cloth. Just a girl on her way to her job. For some reason
their eyes met. And Edgar smiled. And the girl smiled, tool

“Nice day,” Edgar nodded.

‘Tes, it is,” the girl said.

It was a nice dayl

Not that Edgar thought about her again that day. It
was just that things seemed brighter somehow. Maybe
because spring was in the air and the sea was that much
nearer.

There were a dozen orders on his desk that needed
his attention. At lunch he ate a kidney stew that didn’t
agree with hwn. Minnie was cross at dinner, because the
rugs hadn’t been what she wanted— even if she could have
afforded them. He was the only one who liked the movie
they went to. The Frederickses both got quite drunk after-
wards. Then it rained for three days.

He was pulling his hat down on his head, making

277

ready to sprint for the subway, as he was leaving his
office building at the end of the third day of rain, when he
noticed a girl having trouble with her umbrella.

“hfaybe I can help you,” he said. He was pretty handy
with little things like umbrellas. He ];iad the umbrella in
his hand before he noticed that it belonged to the girl to
whom he had spoken in the elevator. He fixed the umbrella
easily enough. Opened it. Handtd it to her.

“Going my way?” she asked.

“I’m going to the subway.”

“So am I.”

There they were, walking along in the rain together.
Edgar had a nice, warm feeling of belonging to someoi;ie.
Silly. A girl he’d seen once before. But there they were,
the two of them, the umbrella shutting out everyone else
in the world. And then they’d reached the subway kiosk.

“I’m going uptown,” the girl said.

“I’m going downtown. Just my luck!”

“Thank you!” said the girl, waving the umbrella.

“Thank you!” said Edgar.

The warm feeling stayed with him until he got home.
Minnie was furious with everything. He couldn’t exactly
blame her. Three days^in Willow Dell in the rain. Of
course, it was raining other places, too. But Minnie—

It was a week later, and the sun was shining. And
there really was spring in the air. Edgar, on his way to
lunch, was standing in the doorway of his building wonder-
ing whether to take a walk and then eat, or eat and then
walk, or just walk.

The girl came out. She was wearing a black hat with
a pink rose on it. A saucy little hat. Indeed it was spring!

They smiled and nodded.

“Going to lunch?” asked Edgar.

‘Tes, I am,” said the girl. “Isn’t it wonderful out?”

‘Too nice to be alone” Edgar wondered at his bold-

278

ness. "Couldn’t you— I mean. I’d like it if you’d have lunch
with me."

“Dove itl” the girl said.

And there they were, walking along in the sunshine!
Edgar figured that, if he had a hot dog and coffee, or
an apple, the rest &f the week, he could afford a nice
luncheon today. Minnie knew to a penny how much he
spent.

He chose a little restaurant he’d passed a lot and heard
about. Sort of solid, with oak walls and very white table-
cloths.

The food was good. The girl was friendly. It had been
a long time since anyone had treated Edgar like this—
nicely, without criticism. They talked about nothing at all.
The girl read all the newspapers, it seemed— editorials and
everything. The funnies, too! She’d read a lot more books
than Edgar had. He mustn’t fall asleep so quickly in the
evening. She loved the theater, but couldn’t afford it very
often. She’d been in New York two years, shared a kitchen-
ette apartment with another girl.

Edgar couldn’t believe it when he suddenly realized
he’d spent longer than his lunch hour.

“We must do this again soon,’’^he said.

“I’d like it a lot,’’ the girl said.

Not until Edgar was in his office did he realize that,
since his marriage, he hadn’t bought lunch for any woman
or been alone with any woman except his wife. What a
nice girl his luncheon compam’on had been! Not once had
she criticized bini. But of course, strangers don’t criticize,
do they? Only his wife could do that. Only her friends
could lauglr at him, belittle him. Oh, well, he’d probably
never see the girl again. Why, he didn’t even know her
name. Or where she lived. Or what office she worked
in. Oh, well, it had been a pleasant adventure.

•279

The feeling of pleasure lasted all day, throu^ the ride
home, through Minnie s horrible dinner.

“What’s the matter with you?” Minnie asked. “You’re
sittinz there with the sickliest grin on your face.”

“Something I read in the paper coming home.”

He tried to think of something; hul luckily Minnie had
lost interest. She’d had a quarrel with a new neighbor and
hadn’t told him nearly all the detoils.

The weather grew warmer, and there came a Sunday
warm enough for the beach. Minnie insisted on preparing
lunch. Edgar tliought Minnie might like to go to church
with him; but she wouldn’t, and he went alone. On his
return he stowed the lunch in the back of the car, with
the beach parasol and the blanket and the other para-
phernalia Minnie thought necessary for such an excursion.

There wasn’t too much traffic. Edgar drove in silence.
Minnie pointed out things along the way, always in criti-
cism or envy. Edgar didn’t pay much attention to tiiat; it
was just Minnie’s way. He wished she were different; but
you can’t make a person over, he’d found out.

They found a parking place easily enough, for it was
early in the season. Edgar carried most of the things;
Minnie wasn’t good at^ carrying bundles. They went to
their separate bathhouses, and then, there they were on
the beach. Minnie was finicky about finding a place—
not near people she took a sudden dislike to and not too
near the water— the tide was sure to rise. But finally they
were set— at the beach.

Edgar gave a great sigh of pleasure, stretched out on
the sand, looked up at the sky. The sand vjas warm. The
sky was blue. A great sense of freedom, of the beauty of
the world, came over him. This— this was living!

Minnie’s voice crashed into his joy. “I forgot my glasses.
This sun will give me a headache in half an hour.”

280

He padded through the sand to the boardwalk, found
a shop and dark glasses. It took half an hour. He shook
his head. Something had happened to the day. Oh, well,
the sea was still there.

Minnie sat there with her glasses on, a hudd}^ and
uncomfortable figure. She looked with envy at the slender
girls who passed. Miimie’s figure had grown heavier each
year, and she never did anything about it except envy
more graceful women and talk about dieting, but never
dieted.

“You don’t mind if I go in the water?” asked Edgar.
He knew Minnie wouldn’t go in this early in the season.

“No, go in,” said Minnie, turning so she could watch
Him. No use letting him think he could get away with any
funny business.

“It’s a wonder she lets me go to business alone,” Edgar
thought, and was ashamed of himself for thinking it.

The water was cold. It stabbed his body like a thousand
little sharp knives and then suddenly burned. Dark blue
water flowing against him, and the sky blue above. And
if you disregarded the people around you, you were all
alone. You and the sky and the sea. Life became important
again. Real. This was worth living fori Worth working fori
Worth being with Minnie, listenfhg to Minnie.

He ran back to the sand, to Minnie. Lay, stretched
out, and pretended to sleep. The warm sun seeped into
him. The sand, moist from his body, clung, caressed.

“I’m getting hungry,” said Minnie. She spread out the
thick sandwiches, the warm drinks. He ate, for the air had
made him hungry. And drank in the beauty of that far
horizon.

“Let’s go home,” said Minnie far too soon. “The air’s
getting chilly. I know I’ll catch cold.”

Oh, well, there’d be other days at the beach.

Usually in summer Edgar had a half-holiday on Satur-

281

day, thou^ he couldn't always plan on it. He didn't get
to the beach, thou^. Minnie saw to that. Once a week
ought to be enough. The next Saturday she felt he ou^t
to work in the garden. That wasn't a bad idea, really. He
work^ in the garden.

On Sunday Minnie had a headache.

"I can’t stand another day like last Sunday— just sitting
in the sun. Why don’t you go alone?"

"You mean you won’t mind?"

"I’d rather do something that's fun. You can get back
early enou^ to take me to that new place on Frenou^
Road for dinner.’’

“Sure, I’ll be back early.”

Edgar got away as soon as he could. Alonel At die
beachl He hadn’t even hoped for it. He got into a bathing
suit. Ran into the water. Took a quick swim. Ran back
to the sand. Lay there, completely at ease.

If only he could lie like this all of his life, near an
ocean someplace. Alone, no one to bother him. No one,
unless there was someone he cared for. The ocean and the
sunshine. Work, of course, too. You couldn’t ask for too
much out of life. The gods had to have labor. But working
usefully. And someone you cared about. And the ocean.
And the warm sand. And the sun.

He went in the water again. The sea was calm. He
breathed hard, because bis heart wasn’t strong; but he
swam smoothly. He felt renewed and cleansed.

And, swimming, he had an idea. Why, if he wanted to,
he could swim out and out . . .

He could swim out and never come back. Away from
commuting trains. Away from the office. Away from Willow
Dell. Away from Minniel Funny, he’d never thought of
that before!

282

He came out of the water and stopped to talk to one
of the lifeguards.

“Lots to do today, eh?” asked Edgar.

“Sure, always on a sunny day. The fools go out too
far because the ocean looks harmless. They forg(/t about
the undertow.”

“Lots of folks get drowned?”

“Too many.”

“You— you get the bodies?”

“Some of ’em. Some you get right away and even bring
em to life. Others drift back in a week or ten days. K
they’re not back then, they’re gone forever.”

“ReaUyl” said Edgar. “I didn’t know that.”

“Not many folks do. I been at this job for years. You
know something?”

“What?” asked Edgar.

“Three thousand people get lost a year— fifteen thousand
in five years. In New York alone!”

“Not all in the water?”

“Oh, no! Altogether. They go away and don’t come
back. Detective from the Missing Persons Bureau of the
Police Department told me.”

“Good heavens!” said Edgar.*

‘Tes, it’s quite a number. Some of ’em walk out and
never come back. Some get killed. Some get drowned.
Some just want to get away from home, I guess.”

Edgar mulled it over. Three thousand a year who were
never found! “That’s a lot of people trying to get away,”
he said.

“Sure is*” said the lifeguard “Trying to, or getting
bumped off or lost.”

“Sure is funny,” said Edgar.

“Sure is,” said the lifeguard.

Edgar thought of it all the way home. You could just

283

walk into the ocean and be free. Forever. Or you could
just disappear. People did.

But how could he disappear? Minnie was suspiciotis if
he to(^ an extra hour away from her. If he just left,
she’d gW him back. And there he’d be, more enslaved than
ever.

It was very warm a few Saturdays later. Edgar’s office
closed at noon. He telephoned Min:'ie. “I’ve got the after-
noon off. If you’d like to go to the beach—”

“I should say not. In this heat!”

“You don’t care if I go?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I think I’ll go right out, then. If you’re sure you don’t
care.”

Minnie couldn’t think of anything she cared about less.

And then, going down in the elevator, Edgar saw the
girl whose umbrella he had fixed, the girl he’d taken to
lunch weeks before. They walked out of the building
together.

“It’s a wonderful day,” the girl said.

“Isn’t it, though. And I’ve got the afternoon off.”

“I have, too.”

“I thought I’d go to the beach.”

“It would be wonderful there.”

“Do you like the water?”

“Of course. I love it!”

“Would you like to come with me? Just to one of the
public beaches?”

“I surely would. And I know a place,” said the girl.
“I’ve been there a couple of times this year already.” It
was the same beach Edgar always went to.

“Sounds good to me; that’s my beach, too,” said Edgar.

They rode out on the train, and it was a holiday!
Everyone around them seemed laughing and happy. They

284

were laughing and happy, too. Edgar hadp’t felt so care-
free in years— not since he was a boy.

The girl preferred a different part of the beach— a few
hundred yards from where* Edgar normally went. The
attendant who gave out the bathhouse tickets was A funny
little gnome, and he knew the girl.

“Glad to see you, Miss Wyatt,” he said.

When they were on the beach, in rented bathing suits,
Edgar looked at her. Why, she was beautiful! Slender—
Minnie’d say she was too thin. Make fun of her, more
than likely.

Edgar wanted to tell her how fine she looked. He
didn’t dare presume. He said something else.

“Do you know, I didn’t know your name— and the man
at the bathhouse—”

The girl laughed. “That’s not my name,” she said. “My
name’s Frances Black. But one day he said, ‘What’s your
name. Miss?’ and I was so surprised I stuttered, “Why-
why— it’s— ’ and he said, ‘Oh, Wyatt!’— and there didn’t seem
any reason to correct him.”

“No reason in the world,” said Edgar, and laughed, too.

“So I lead a double life,” she said.

“I always thought a double ^ife might be fun."

“It is fun,” said Frances.

It was a wonderful day! They ran down to tiie beach.
Frances loved the sun and the .sand and the sea. 'They
ate hot dogs and ice-cream cones, and Edgar thought they
tasted better than any hot dogs or ice-cream cones he
had ever hgd. They went into the water. They lay quietly
side by side on the sand.

“I’ve never been so happy in my life,” Edgar said to
himself. He had thought that the sand and the sea were
enough. Why, they hadn’t been enough at all!

And then the afternoon was over.

285

“I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it, Miss—**

“You’d better call me ‘Frances.’ That will take in both
of my lives.”

“Fmnces,” he said. “My name’s Edgar Wilson. Thank
you foam beautiful afternoon.”

He was back in Willow Dell, and He knew that some-
thing important had happened to him. He had to hide a
smile when Minnie called him down for being late. Why,
he knew a girl who was young and pretty and kind.

Sunday he worked in the garden. Minnie wouldn’t go
to the beach, and he knew he couldn’t go alone so soon
again, and he dreamed of a hundred things. But mostly
of a girl named Frances. It was the first time he’d had
anyone nice to dream about.

Funny about Minnie and him. He’d never loved her,
actually. But he’d met her, and she’d been unhappy, work-
ing, and had wanted a home— had talked of the home
she could make for some man. She’d talked, and he’d
listened. Oh, it had been his own fault. He’d been old
enough to know better. But he’d been alone in the city.
Hadn’t he suffered enough for his mistake? Well, now
things were different. Besides the beach to think about,
there was a girl named Frances.

For three days he waited, most of his lunch hour, at
the entrance of the building. She didn’t appear. On the
fourth day she came out just as he was losing hope.

“This won’t do,” he said. “I’ll have to know where to
find you. I don’t know the name of the firm you work for.”

“Of course,” she said. “It never occurred Jo me.” She
told him. 'They went to lunch together.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” said Edgar. “I didn’t
think there was any need to tell you. But I guess you
ou^t to know. I’m married.”

“Ohl” said Frances.

286 '

“Not that it makes any difference,” Edgar said. “I don’t
flatter myself that you’re interested enough to care whether
I’m married or single. Only—”

“I do care,” said Frances. •>“! made up my mind . once,
never to make a date with a married man.”

“I don’t blame 'you,” said Edgar, and suddenly there
was a great lump where his heart had been. He shouldn’t
h^ve told her! Why, if she hadn’t known he was married—

“But that was a long time ago. I— I don’t have much
luck with men, I guess. There was a boy in my home
town—”

And she told about the boy who had been all attention
until a visitor came to town. He was married to the visiting
girl now.

“My father was dead. Then my mother died, and I’m
an only child, so there wasn’t an3^ng to keep me at
home. I’m really all alone.”

“You have—” He wanted to say “me.” Lamely, he fin-
ished, “A lot of friends.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t. My roommate is getting married
next week— moving to Kansas.”

"We’ll— well have a good time together,” Edgar said.
Why not? Couldn’t he have a litie happiness?

“I’m so much older than you are,” he said, “and I don’t
amount to a great deal— not important or rich or anydiing.
And married. Maybe you aren’t very good at picking
friends.”

“I think you’re swell!” Frances said.

Edgar beamed. It was the first compliment he’d had in
a long time.

Two Saturdays later, when he had the afternoon off
and Minnie didn’t want to go to the beach, he telephoned
Frances at her office. Waited anxiously. Yes, Frances would
be delighted to go with him.

“It’s funny,” she said on the way. “You’re leading a

287 *

double life, toa The little man at the bathhouse asked me
last week where Mr. Wyatt was.”

They laughed about it. For some reason Edgar thought
it waa pretty fine. Married, even in the mind of a beach-
house rian, to Frances. Edgar and Frances Wyattl Why,
that sounded wonderful! But what nonsense! He was mar-
ried to Minnie. It was Edgar and Minnie Wilson. Oh, well.

The beach was as wonderful a’ ever. He and Frances
ran along the sand, played ball wi‘h some boys, took a
swim, and lay quietly and close together.

This was all he wanted out of life. Frances and a
beach. And work to do. And coming home to Frances.

If he could get away! Away from Minnie. From Willow
Dell. Something better than walking out into the sea.
Away with Frances!

Three thousand people a year. They didn’t all die. They
didn’t all drown. Or get killed. Some of them got away!

He thought of that from then on. A little nibble in
the back of his mind. Always there. He could get away!
Away from Minnie’s everlasting quarreling and fault-find-
ing. Away from her frigidity. Her ugliness. Get away. Not
into the sea. Not to death. But to life!

He could do it! He’d have to do it! He didn’t know
how; but it would work out.

He got a raise. A substantial one. Any other time he’d
have sent the check to the bank, hurried home to Minnie
with the news. Now he had another idea.

In a bank far from his office he opened a checking
account. Made out to Edgar A. Wyatt. He put the dif-
ference in his salary into the new account.

He loved Frances. There was no denying it. His love
for her was the greatest thing in his life— his only
love. And she loved him! She shouldn’t, of course. Her
life had been sad. 'This time, he’d have to see that it

288 *

wasn’t. Have to give her some happiness. Not that she
didn’t act gay. She always did. But he wanted a more
lasting happiness. Somediing more than these stolen hours.

He talked it over with I^rances. She would do, what-
ever he thought best. He knew that.

Gradually, his* plan took form. Little pieces fitting
together. In the first place, he wouldn’t cheat anyone.
Getting away was all he wanted. There was his insurance.

use playing a trick on the insurance company.

Minnie grew more quarrelsome, complained now that
the house needed so much done to it.

“We ought to get it all paid for first, don’t you think?”
Edgar said. If he left Minnie the house, paid in full, she
Wouldn’t have to get much of a job. He knew how she
hated to work.

"You mean the mortgage?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You talk big. Where are you going to get the money?”

“My insurance. It has a cash value.”

“Yes, but what if you—”

“Oh, I’m not likely to die right away. They say folks
with weak hearts live forever.”

She tried to find a hole in his argument. What would
he gain from it? She couldn’t find one.

He canceled his insurance, got the most cash he could.
There was enough to finish paying for the mortgage. And
to paint the house, inside and out. And a rug for the
living room. And a hundred dollars Minnie knew nothing
about. Well, he ought to have something out of it.

And now there was the planl Complete. Perfect. It
would have to be. It was the only way. He explained it
to Frances.

He and Frances would go to the beach. On a Saturday.
Frances’s part of the beach. He’d carry with him a new
suit that he’d buy. A couple of changes of things. And

289

he’d put all of this in a locker that he’d rent for the week
end. They’d spend the afternoon on the beach as usual.
He’d leave the new suit there in the locker.

Tbe next day he’d go to thp beach with Minnie. Miimie’s
part oi^e beach. Put on his bathing suit. Walk out into
the water. And disappear. From Minnie! Forever.

They’d look for him. Find his clothes in the bathhouse.
Think he was drowned. One of the three thousand a year
who disappeared.

But he wouldn’t have disappeared. He’d have gone out
as far as he could— not too far, on account of his heart.
And then come in slowly, way up the beach. Near Frances’s
part. No one would notice him . A man in black trunks
among thousands of men in black trunks. He’d join Frances'
He’d be Mr. Wyatt, at the part of the beach where he was
always Mr. Wyatt. He and Frances, without any hurry or
rush, so as not to attract attention, would leave togedier,
as they always left. He’d wear the new suit. No one would
notice. His clothes were always inconspicuous.

But they wouldn’t separate, as they always had. They’d
go on. West, maybe. On and on. They wouldn’t have much
money; but they’d have enough to get someplace. To Cali-
fornia, maybe. And he could get a job. He’d never minded
working. A beach and a job. And the sun. And Frances.

It sounded too simple. Too easy.

He looked back at the house as they drove out of the
garage. It looked pretty good with its new coat of yellow
paint. His new house would be white, with green shutters.
On a beach somewhere.

“The house looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” said Minnie
complacently. Then her voice changed to its usual whine.
“Outside! But the inside doesn’t go with it I’d like to
throw out all of those old things and get modernistic fur-
niture.”

290

"Would— would it go with the outside?” Edgar asked.
For conversation, mostly. He didn’t care.

rOf course it would. How ignorantly you talk. People
with older houses than ours, fix them up modernistic. But
it takes money. And with your salary—”

‘We’ve done c^ite a lot this year.”

“I’ll never hear the end of it. You’d think you’d done
it all. Your insurance is what did it. And who helped you
sitve for that? I guess I don’t even get credit.”

“Of course you do, Minnie.”

“And you’d better take out more insurance. As soon as
the last bill gets paid for. I’d like to get a few things for
the house. But you fussed about the new end tables.”

“No, I didn’t, Minnie.”

“I could see how you felt. I’ve been afraid to tell you;
but I’ve got a new coffee table coming on Monday.”

Mondayl Maybe he’d never see the new coffee table!

He never saw die new coffee table.

He spent a couple of hours on the beach, as he had
planned. He listened to Minnie. He even tried to compli-
ment her. Not too much. Not enough to make her suspi-
cious. Just enough so that she’d remember him pleasantly.

He stood up, shook the sand from his suit. “I guess
I’ll go for a swim,” he said.

Minnie watched him for a while. Oh, he’d behave as
long as her eye was on him! She wondered idly what he
did, those days when she wasn’t along. She couldn’t
imagine he was up to much harm, out in all diis sun with
these awful people.

She tried to get comfortable on the sand. She dozed a
little. Then she fished in her bag until she found a soft,
crumpled bar of chocolate. She nibbled at it, though it
made her mouth dry. Edgar could get some coke when he
got back.

291

How long he was! Had he forgotten all about her? She
looked at her watch. It was later than she’d thought. Where
was Edgar? Wasn’t that just like himi But he couldn’t be
swimn^ing all this time.

She (Tied to pick him out, in the water. She watched
the bobbing figures.

She thought she saw him. Raised her arm. Beckoned.
She thought the man waved to her. She beckoned again.
When the man came nearer, she saw ^hat it wa.sn’t Ed^r
at all.

She waited as patiently as she ever waited, for a long
time. Then she grew angry. A nice trick to play on her!
He probably met someone he knew! Why didn’t he bring
them over to her? '

Could something have happened to him? To Edgar?
He wasn’t the sort of man things happened to. When
folks began to go home and the sun dropped, she grew
frightened.

The beach attendants and the lifeguards listened to
her. At first they didn’t seem perturbed. 'Then, when Edgar
didn’t appear and Minnie grew hysterical, they did what
they could.

Yes, there had been an undertow. Quite a bad one.
A couple of people had^heen caught in it; but they’d
been brought in. But no one had seen anyone else strug-
gling.

"Was he a good swimmer?”

“Pretty good,” Minnie said.

“Did he go far out?”

"Yes. He went way out there.” Minnie poipted.

A lifeguard swam around. Others launched a boat and
searched. There was a group around Minnie. A couple of
policemen. Curiosity seekers. Minnie liked being the center
of attention. She grew more and more hysterical.

One of the policemen looked for— and found— Edgar’s

•292

clothes in his locker. Minnie hadn’t even fought of that.

“Well, he didn’t get away,” a policeman said. It never
occurred to her he’d go away. And yet it never occurred
to her he’d drown, either.

Finally she drove the car home alone.

The next day Ridge Kelly, a detective from the Missing
Persons Bureau, came to talk with her. He’d just been
^ken off a patrolman’s job and raised to plainclothes work,
arid he took his post seriously. He was kind-hearted, and
he was keen.

He asked Minnie a lot of questions. “You don’t think
your husband was drowned?” he asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“But he went out pretty far, you say. His clothes were
there. A lot of men are drowned each year.”

“Then where’s his body?”

“Sometimes for days—” Kelly's voice was gentle.

“Then you don’t think there’s any hope?”

“Unless he was picked up on the beach. Amnesia,
you know. But we’ve made inquiries.”

“He— he’s gone away.” Minnie’s nose and eyes were red
from weeping, but anger was uppermost. “He never cared
anything for me. He ran away.”

“He supported you, didn’t He?”

“Yes, but he never made much money. If you call that
supporting me.”

“You have this house— paid for, you say?”

“Yes, just paid for this year. And sore at me if I bought
one extra thing for it. Why. even yesterday—”

“And ygu’ve got a car?”

“Last year’s. Just finished paying for diat a couple of
months ago. Always buys a car on time and spends a year
and a half paying for it.”

“But he left that.”

“Sure, he couldn’t get away with thatl”

293

"His ixisurai^ceP”

"He wasn’t insured, 1 tell you. Got a cash whatever-
you-call-it this summer— to finish paying for the house.
That’s«.just like himi Leaving ^me like ^isl" She was crying
again.

"I’m afraid there’s nothing we cah do, ma’am. He
couldn’t have run away— in a bathing suit.”

“But his— his body?”

"It may come in. It may not. If 'here was insurance
we might question it. But as it is—”

“Then you think he’s drowned? You don’t think there’s
any doubt?”

“Look here, ma’am, I’m as skeptical as the next one.
But here’s a man with a weak heart and no insurance,
goes out for a swim on a day when there’s an undertow.
And he doesn’t come back. And his clothes are in his
locker. You don’t miss any clothes, do you?”

Minnie didn’t miss any clothes. “You’re not going to
end the case like this?” she asked.

“Of course not. Half a dozen men are working on it.
We’ll let you know.”

Kelly reported to her*, a couple of days later. They
hadn’t found anything. Edgar had left his office
on Friday as he always left it. He’d known he didn’t have
to report on this particular Saturday, as Minnie had known,
too. His desk was in order; but it was always in order
when he left at the end of the week. No, there was no girl
or woman in the office he ever paid any attention to.

“Never saw him with a woman,” his boss reported.

The boss wrote Minnie a letter. Told her how much
he had liked Edgar, what a good, dependable employe
he had been. And enclosed a check which more than
covered six months’ salary. Minnie was surprised and

294

gratified at first; then she thought it should have been a
year’s salary.

Of course, even with the unexpected money, Minnie
would have to get a job after a while. She hatod the
idea of getting up in the morning and dressing ai3d going
to town. A job vyith long hours. Just what Edgar had
done all these years. Why, Edgar was gone. Drowned. It
Sjdn’t seem possible! It was a dirty trick.

’“Don’t stop looking for him,” she told the detective.

“I won’t,” Kelly promised. He studied the pictures
she gave him. Informal snapshots; Edgar had never sat
for a formal picture. There weren’t even many of these,
nor were they very clear. They had a camera; but Edgar
was the one who usually took the pictures, so they were
mostly of Minnie. Or their friends. Or the ocean. Or the
little dog that had died.

“His hair was beginning to recede,” Minnie said. “And
he walked round-shouldered. I was always telling him to
straighten up. And he walked with his feet too far apart.
Waddled, sorjt of.”

Kelly didn’t know where to look. A man who drowns
at sea.

“He had a habit of biting his fingers when he was
nervous. You’d know him by tlSat. And sometimes, when
he was nervous, he had a sort of little cough, before
words. Do you think you’d know him?”

Kelly said, “I’d know him, all right.”

Oh, he’d know him. But there didn’t seem much use
in remembering. If the man had died while he was swim-
ming. Still, Jiis wife seemed awfully sure, in spite of every-
thing. They get hunches, sometimes, women do. Kelly had
noticed that. He’d keep it in mind, anyhow. It would be
quite a triumph for him, producing a man who was sup-
posed to be drowned. Right out of thin air.

295 '

Mr. and Mr,s. Ridge Kelly drove to the Coast on their
honeymoon. It was Kelly s fii^t real holiday, the first time
he’d crossed the country.

Mis. Kelly was pretty and cute and twenty-one. And
loved eyeryone and everything, especially her tall, good-
looking husband.

“I do wish I could watch you make an arrest or some-
thing,” she said.

“I couldn’t very well make an arrest outside the state.
If I did find anything suspicious. I’d have to get the
police in another city or get a warrant.”

“Even that would be exciting.”

“Well, you can never tell. Let’s forget all about tha^
now, honey. We’re on a honeymoon.” '

“Sure, let’s forget all about it. But it would be fun.”

“Sure, it’d be fun,” said Kelly. He wouldn’t mind
impressing his wife and maybe making a bit of a name for
himself.

They drove through Kentucky. And Tennessee. And
Arkansas. 'Through Oklahoma. And Arizona. Not a sus-
picious character the whole way! They slept in hotels and
motels and auto camps. 'They ate in lunchrooms and road-
side inns. 'They drove ear^v and late. 'They did everything
tourists usually do. And nothing happened that Kelly could
use to impress his bride.

In California they drove to Hollywood, and Kelly knew
someone who knew someone who knew the man who was
secretary to a producer at Warner Brothers. So Mr. and
Mrs. Kelly drove to Burbank and went through the studio
and saw the New York streets and the big sound sets and
watched some actors do a scene. It was wonderful! Months
later, when they saw the picture on the screen, they talked
and talked about it.

They drove through little towns along the coast and
wondered at their unreal beauty.

296

*XookI Those little white houses on the. beachl Ri^t
out of a fairy-tale book!” Mrs. Kelly said.

“They sure are,” said Kelly, pleased with her enthusiasm.

They stopped for ice-cream»sodas at a drugstore oa one
of the curved streets of a little town.

A man passed,* and something inside Kelly’s head
idicked. He liked that to happen. It made him breathe a
^ faster.

The man was nothing to look at, really. He had no
hat on, and his hair was a bit thin and receding. But a
lot of men look like that. And he walked bent over just
a little, and his feet were just a trifle apart, which made
his walk a sort of waddle. He was wearing light trousers
and no coat— the way most of the men in town were
dressed that day.

"Hold on!” said Kelly and left Mrs. Kelly drinking her
ice-cream soda.

He hurried out of the drugstore, down the curved
street, after the man.

“Hey, Wilson!” he called. The man didn’t look around.
That’s the idea he had— your suspect is supposed to look
frightened, first thing.

Kelly went up to him, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Isn’t your name Wilson?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. Name’s Wyatt. Live up here a piece.
Work at the Bevan’s Open Air Market.”

“Beg pardon, pal,” Kelly said and was about to move on.

And Wyatt, still looking at him, began to bite a finger.

“You sure?” Kelly asked again. “Don’t mind if I ask
you a few questions?”

"Ask as many as you like,” Wyatt said politely.

Funny. Most men would have resented it, being spoken
to like that by a stranger. Kelly wanted to say more ri^t
away; but he remembered he was on his honeymoon.

“I’ve got my wife with me,” he said. ‘T wonder—”

297

“Why don’t you bring her with you?” said Wyatt. “I’m
going home. Got a couple of hours off. My wife loves
company. Be glad to see both of you.”

So Ihere they were, jogging up the road.

“I thought Mr. Wyatt was someone I knew,” Kelly had
explained to Mrs. Kelly.

The house was small and white .>nd right on the ocesui.

“Couldn’t be any closer or you’d drop in, eh?” Kelly
said.

“That’s what we like about it. We found it just the
way it is. Painted it, of course.”

“Been here long^

“Oh, some time.”

Mrs. Wyatt was wearing white slacks and a loose coat.
She was lovely, Mrs. Kelly thought, with her hair nearly
straight and just turned up a little at the ends.

“Some people I met,” Wyatt said. ‘Thought they knew
me.”

“Come right in,” said Mrs. Wyatt. "We sit out here
most of the time.”

There was something like a patio, looking toward ttie
sea. And there were bright, painted chairs and a little
table. White, mostly, or a lovely shade of hluc-green.
Magazines lying around. Cigarettes an dfniit on the little
table.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” Mrs. Wyatt said.

‘We just had some sodas,” said Kelly.

“Oh, in this climate you can drink all day.”

She went into the house, moving with pleasant grace.
Wyatt followed her.

“They’re lovely people,” said Mrs. Kelly, “whether you
knew them or not.” Her voice grew lower, a whisper. “See
tiiat coat she’s wearing? She’s going to have a babyl” She
giggled at her own sophistication.

298

The Wyatts returned. Wyatt carried a tray of drinks.

“Just fruit, this time of day,” he said. ,

Mrs. Wyatt carried a plate of little cakes. “Lucky 1
baked them this morning.”

“She bakes every day— early in the morning before the
sun gets hot,” Wyatt said proudly.

“These certainly are good,” said Mrs. Kelly.

'"This hits the spot,” said her husband, downing his
fruit'drink so quickly that Wyatt hastened to refill his glass.

The waves made little white ribbons along the beadi.
The sky and the sea were very blue, as far out as you
could see.

“We spend most of our time here,” Mrs. Wyatt said.
“Except when my husband s at work.”

“It doesn’t even seem much like work— seUing in the
open air.”

“I guess they don’t pay a lot,” Kelly said.

“Oh, enough. Rent’s cheap. We don’t have much ex-
pense. We save a little for the doctor, things like that.”

Kelly nodded and winked at Mrs. Kelly in acknowledg-
ment of her feminine wisdom. Then he stood up.

“Nice to meet you folks,” he said, “but we have to
leave. It’s our honeymoon, you lAow, and we’ve a lot to
see.” He paused, looked around. Then said very quietly:
“Funny, I thought you looked like a man I was expecting
to see. He was wanted for desertion, I believe. There isn’t
anybody else looking for him. You can’t compel a man to
live with his wife you know. Not everybody knows that.
And to arrest a man you’ve got to get a warrant and have
evidence.”

Mrs. Kelly preened with pride at her husband’s erudi-
tion. “The things he knowsi” she said.

“Men are like that,” said Mrs. Wyatt and put her hand
on her husband’s shoulder.

299

He put his arm around her, and they stood very close
togetherVas they told the Kellys good-bye.

“If you could come in later, for supper—” Mrs. Wyatt
said, ^

“Thank you, but we’ll be on our way. We’ve got a
lot of territory to cover. Nice to have seen you, though.”

“Very nice,” Wyatt said.

And the women both nodded and smiled.

“Good-bye, then,” Kelly said and added, almost bash-
fully, to Wyatt: “Don’t worry about that other matter.
All a mistake on my part. But if 1 was you. I’d get out
of that habit of biting my fingers. That gave me the idea.”

Mr. Wyatt swallowed hard as he shook Mr. Kelly’s
hand. ‘Thank you,” he said. Mrs. Wyatt said, “Thank you,”
too. And they all laughed happily, as if someone had said
something amusing.

300

HOTEL DOG

V ERNis was waked up by the dog
scratching on the side of her bed. Her
head ached. She’d been up very late.
“Go 'wayl” she said. Her voice was a high whine.
“G*o ’way!”

The scratching stopped, and she went back to sleep.
But presently, through sleep and the pain in her head,
she was aware of it again.

“Go away! Lie down!”

The dog obeyed her for a while. She fell asleep and
was dreaming something very pleasant about a messenger
and a big box that held a surprise when the scratching
started in all over again.

"Go away!” she shrieked. Leaning over, she pushed
away the little warm body. She cotfld hear him scrambling.
Instead of being rebuffed, there he was, licking the back
of her hand and beginning to jump with pleasme because
he was noticed. She tried to go back to sleep. It was
no use. She knew the dog wouldn’t be quiet again. “Oh,
God!” she said. "Why do I have a dog?”

She opened one eye and managed to sit on the side
of the bed. The dog was beside himself with joy. He
gave little squeaks of pleasure and ran toward the door.

Vemis got up, none too steadily, and shook her head,
which didn’t help. She felt awful. She could have slept
for hours if it hadn’t been for the dog. She reached out

•301

for the telephone. “Send a boy up right away. Room 405"
she saitf to the telephone girl.

She put on a once-elegant chiffon negligcic an4 made
an ineffectual attempt to comb her hair. » It was brown
and touched up none too Cleverly.

She sat down on the side of thf bed again. Just sat
until there was a knock on the door. ,

"Here he is!” she said, as she opened the door, "yih,
it’s you, Joe. I’m so glad. Martini th'nks you’re wonderful.”

The dog was jumping up and down in his eagerness
to get out. Vemis picked him up, put on his collar, and
snapped his leash.

“Be careful with him, Joe. But I know you are. And
see that he— ah— relieves himself several times.”

“Yes’m,” said Joe.

She was almost asleep when Joe knocked again.

“Open the door!” she called. “Let him in! Ill tip you
next time, Joe.” Tipping! Tipping! When you’ve got a dog,
that’s the way it is. She was always hard up, living
like this, in a second-rate hotel, on alimony. Her ex was
doing all right, married again and living in a big place
in New Jersey. What a fool she’d been to get a divorce!
Why, if she’d held on— but she hadn’t held on. She sighed,
loosened the dog’s c(^lar, took off her negligee, and
got back into bed again. The dog was quiet now, but
Vemis couldn’t get back to sleep.

«

At noon she got up and telephoned a half a dozen
people. She had a dinner date with Art Crollic for tonight,
so she didn’t have to bother about that. Art was a terrible
bore and had awful table manners, but he’d buy her a
dinner and he was someone to talk to. She managed
another dinner date for the next night and a couple of
luncheons. Today, Dutch treat, with Flora Morse. Flora
was divorced too. Divorced women were the only ones.

302

it seemed, who had time for leisurely lundieon dates and,
too frequently, evenings that were hree.

By the time Flora called for her at half past/one she
was jessed and looking very well, too. By going without
breakfast and giving up potatoes and starches and butter
and candy, which sl^e loved, she’d been able to ke^p her
figure. She didn’t realize, or want to, that her face,
deprived of fats and proteins, was far too thin, her eyes
hollow, her cheeks too lined.

“You going to take that dog?” Flora asked. “There’s
so few places that will let him in.”

"All right. I’ll leave him here.”

“He’ll be much better off.”

* The dog had been listening. Seeing Vemis putting on
her hat, he began to paw her.

“Go ’wayl You’ll tear my stocldngl” she said. “You don't
have to go out again and you know itl” She went to tiie
closet and got a couple of dog biscuits out of a box. “Now,
be a good dog,” she said, more kindly. “I’ll be home in a
little while.” She threw the biscuits on tiie floor. "Let’s get
right out,” she said to Flora, “before he starts to cry.”

They ate at the Coq Rouge. The luncheon was good.
Then they had their fortune told by tiie pretty Chinese girL
She told them both wonderful things.

“Even if it doesn’t come out, it’s fun to hear,” Vemis
said. Only once did she think of Martini. She suddenly
remember,ed that she hadn’t filled his water dish, which
stood in ^e bathroom. Oh, well, maybe there was some
water left in it.

They went to see a movie at Radio City Music Hall.
They didn’t care much for the picture, but they liked &e
stage show. Vemis forgot about her dog until she returned
to the hotel around five. Then, suddenly, she had to see
him tight away. She dashed through the hotel lobby, waited
impatiently for an elevator. What if something . . .

303

The dog was at the door. When Vemis’s key turned in
the lock, he began- to squeal with pleasure,' and as she
opened Ithe door he jumped on her.

“You act as if I’d been away for a mogith!’’ sho^ said.
She went into the bathrcSom. Martini followed her. His
waterniish was dry.

Vemis let the water in the tap get cold and filled his
dish. The dog drank deeply. Vemis stood by him, waiting.
Then she put his collar on and took him dpwn for a«walk.
She walked one block, crossed the street, and came back
on the other side. She was pleased when people seemed
to admire the prancing httle black poodle.

“Don’t pull so,’’ she said. “Why are you hurrying so fast?
You haven’t any place to gol” She waited patiently, a
couple of times, at the curb. When she got back to her
room she lay down and rested for a while. Then she
dressed leisurely and was all ready when Art Grollic called
for her.

“You’re not taking that dogi’’ he said.

“Not unless we go to the Colony. He could stay in front
there.”

‘We’re not going to the Colony,” Art Crollic said.

They went to an Italian restaurant someone had told
him about. It was a typically Italian restaurant, with unbe*
lievably bad murals and not-too-good spaghetti.

"I thought if we had steak I could save a piece for
the little dog,” Vemis said.

There was no steak on the table-d’h6te dinner. Vemis
picked up a bit of veal, put it in a paper napkin, and
tucked it in her purse. It would probably soak through the
napkin and spot her bag. Oh, well! There wa's nothing you
could do about it. If you’ve got a dog . . .

Art Crollic was even duller than Vemis had remembered
him. First he talked about himself and his business and his

• 804 *

family. They, were having trouble with one of his*sisters,
who wasn’t quite right mentally and wandered around the
house *and stuck notes in odd comers. Then he di^’t talk
at allf There v^n’t any movie he wanted to see. He didn’t
care about the theater.

They stopped in t* see some friends of his. Five people
sat in a small, badly furnished living room. The men had
their coats off. They had been sitting there, drinking, for
a long time. Vemis drank a couple of drinks as fast as
she could. She’d had cocktails with dinner and a highball
afterward, but without effect. These made her feel better.

They went on then to a third-rate night club. Art knew
the proprietor and Vemis felt that he thought he wouldn’t
get a check. They drank steadily. Art got a check. He
wasn’t in too good a humor from the drinks; it was clear
that he didn’t like having to pay for them. Art GroUic in
a bad temper was something. “He’d be bad enough,” Vemis
told herself, “if he were dressed in solid gold and ordering
special champagne at El Morocco.”

They stopped in at a bar on the way home. More drinks.
Vernis knew she wasn’t too steady. Oh, well, with Art
Grollic she was safe enough. He was so dull that when
you talked to him you felt an artery had been cut and your
lifeblood was seeping away. But thfere were a lot of artery-
cutters. 'That was the trouble with being divorced and not
so young. 'The really nice men all like young girls, or have
wives that* they stay home with. Women of her age either
got artery-cutters or they got no one at all.

Vemis straightened herself and spoke with new dignity.
"Got to get home. Right away. Got a dogl” She reached
over, took a pretzel, and put it into her bag. "For my
dog,” she said, to anyone who might be interested.

She told Art good-bye in the lobby. 'That was one thing
in favor of artery-cutters— you could get rid of them.

“A wonderful timel” she said. Her voice was a little

305

thick. Xet’s get togetiier soon. Do it all «ver againl”

“Surest tiling yoii know,” Art Grollic said.

Martini was waiting at^the door. She pift on his collar
again and fastened his leader ivith unsteady fingers. This
time she took him only a couple ofi^ feet from the hotel
entrance and stood at the curb until he seemed ready to
go back to the hotel.

In her room she took off her hat, her dress, her^hoes.
Her feet hurt. She crumbled the pretzel into a dish, opened
a can of pr^ared dog food, and added it and the bit of
limp veal. Then she put the dish next to the freshly filled
water dish in the bathroom. Martini took the first mouthful
before she even put it down.

She finished undressing then and sat on the side of the
bed. She wanted to cry and she didn’t know why ahe
wanted to cry. She’d been out to dinner, hadn’t she? Before
that she’d been to lunch and to the movies with one of
her best friends. And she had a dinner date tomorrow, too.
She didn’t like her date very well, but after all you can’t
be too choosy, a woman alone. There might even be times
ahead when she wouldn’t get dates at all. But why worry
about that? There were dates now. Oh, she’d been a fool,
getting a divorce, but that was over. No use worrying
about that. Maybe she was better off without her ex. They
never had got along so well. After all, here she was, living
in a hotel, a nice alimony check the first of every month,
or she’d know why! Dinner dates and shopping. And
women to have luncheons with and play bridge with. Pretty
much all right.

The little dog, his dinner finished, came back into the
room. He ran over to Vemis and with eager paws begged
her to pick him up. Her arms went around him. Tears fell
on the soft black fur of his head and ears.

306

THE OTHEE WOMAN

Y es,” he said, and his voice was hesi*
tant and very gentle. “I do want a
divorce. I’ve thou^t it out pretty
carefully. Youll be well provided for. Fanning and Rutgers
will handle the details. You’ve known Bill Rutgers for years;
he’ll give you whatever you think is fair. The country
place, the furniture of the apartment here in town, enou^
income so you’ll be comfortable.”

"You have thought it out!” Her voice was sharp. “There’s
nothing I can do about it, I guess.”

“I’m— I’m afraid not, now. After all, you won’t bo out
—a great deal. You’ve shown me for a long while diat we
have very little in common. We haven’t spent a lot of
time together, and what we have spent hasn’t been too
pleasant.”

“Why, Bert!” Her voice rose higher. “How can you
say that! We’ve been together a lot! As much as most
married people. I— I thought we got along all right. I
never thought we’d come to this— to a divorce! What will
people say?”

“Don’t let' that worry you. They probably won’t say
anything. Too much is happening in the world for any-
one to bother about whether or not we stick together.
Be a good sport about it, Nell. You won’t be so badly off,
you know. Go to Reno— it will be a nice holiday for you.

307 ‘

and yyuVe often spoken about Reifo and a /fivorce, after
all. The usual charge— cruelty, I believe."

Shef began to cry, making little sniffing .noise;. Soon
her nose and eyes were red, and she dabb^ at thetti widi
her handkerchief. "I never thought it would come to this,"
she skid. “I’ve given you the best years of my life!"

He couldn’t help smiling, in spite of the seriousness of
the occasion. “Don’t you remembe- that old joke? Who
made them the best years?”

She didn’t see anything funny in that, novr. “But I’m
middle-agedc A woman alone—”

“You have your friends. You’re always telling me about
them, and you’re forever comparing me to other men."

“Now, Bert, it’s just that—’’

“We won’t go into it. 'That’s over. No more quarrels
or bickering, ever. That’s one reason—”

“There’s another woman. I’d like to bet,” she sobbed.
"Another woman, another woman.” Her voice was bellig-
erent, yet there was something in her tone that showed
she felt he would deny it.

He surprised her. “Yes, there is another woman,” ho
said.

She stopped crying, in sheer surprise. “There is— some-
one else?”

“Yes.”

“You stand there and tell me thatl You— you are—”

"You asked me.”

“I know! But— well, what if I refuse to give you a
divorce?”

“You won’t refuse. Things will be too difficult for you
if you do— and very comfortable for you if you get it, the
way I’ve planned.” There was strength in his voice.

She knew that tone. She’d get the divorce. But she
wasn’t through. There were things she had to know. “She’s
young, I guess,” she said. “Years younger dian I am. Of

308 *

coursel A ch(q;us girl dt a model. No fool like an ol^ fool,
I always say.”

“No,” he said, "surprisingly enough, she's only a |X)uple
of yeai/k younger than I am. It— it isn’t really die age that
matters.”

“She’s pretty, then«

^Yes,” he said. “I think so. She’s neat. She wears pretty
little dresses that are always fresh and fit her well. And
she’s slender and doesn’t always talk about dieting.”

“That’s not fairl” said NeU. “I do have to diet. It
makes me dizzy to exercise. But I’m sure I don’t keep
talking about it.”

“I’m just telling you,” said Bert. “You wanted to hear.”

“I do want to hear! I want to hear about the kind of
woman who’s pulled die wool over your eyes, making
you forget your— your own home.”

“That’s just it— it isn’t much of a home. A home’s what
I wanted. Not a house full of expensive furniture and a
lot of parasites cluttering up the place. Why, I can’t come
home without finding the house full of people drinking
my liquor, smoking my cigarettes, but hardly even speaking
to me.”

“That’s it. You’re angry becaust they don’t pay any
attention to you. 'They’re interested in things like— like the
theater— and art.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Bert. “I’m a businessman.
Always was. Only I wasn’t a very big one when you met
me, remember?”

She rememjiered. “How can I forget! There were years
when you didn’t have anything. When we worried about
the rent, even. 'This- this woman won’t have to go dirough
that, you seel She’s— she’s interested in you, I suppose, and
in your businessi”

“Surprisingly enough, she is,” said Bert. “She not only

•309

listen^ when I talk about what I*ve been, doing, during
the day, biit she aSks intelligent questions— and remembers
the ai;»swers. It’s something to come home ,to— a ,woman
who is interested in you and interested m what y<iu do.”

“She knows all about politics, I guess— things like that!”
Thei^ was a suggestion of a sneer ^n Nell’s voice.

"Well, I wouldn’t say she’s a mental giant. But, she
keeps up. Reads more than the fash'ons in the newspapers.
First-page stuff and a couple of neVs magazines.*Knows
a little bit about what’s going on— and surely there is
enough going on.”

“You make her sound awfully serious and dull, I can
tell you that.”

“That’s just it. She isn’t dull at all. She’s always jfilly.
And she sees fun in everything. And yet she doesn’t
gossip or say unkind things.”

“I do, I guess!”

“Well, it’s one of the things we’ve argued enough
about. I don’t believe in always tearing down.”

“I can just see her. A prig! I bet she doesn’t even play
bridge.”

“How right you are. Why, she doesn’t even think it’s
too dreadful to spend an evening at home, reading or
talking or watching T?/.”

“Just cut out after your pattern, isn’t she?” Nell was
sneering now. “Any other virtues I haven’t got?”

“Well, yes,” he said. “She isn’t extravagant, for one
thing. Oh, I know I’ve got money; but a useless spending
of so much for clothes that never get worn out—*

“There you go again! I’m extravagant, you mean.”

“Why, yes, I do mean that. It can’t be a surprise to
you, the many times we’ve spoken about it. But there’s
no use torturing each other. We know it’s over. I’m leaving,
now. I’m going to my club.”

“Going to her, most likely.”

310

^ejl, no,” he said»and hesitated, as if he wanted to
say something more, but wasn’t sure.

Nell had^more to say. “I— I bet she’s die vamp t)^
and h^ taken ]{ou in good and strong.”

"Maybe,” he answered. “She’» sweet and pretty.”

"^weet? Pretty?”

"Yes, she is. Never uses cold cream in front of me.
Hau always neat. No sloppy dressing gowns.”

"Ma^e now— but wait imtil you’re married to hCT.
You’ll find out then, all right.”

."That’s what happens sometimes,” he said very slowly.

"What do you mean?”

"Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.” He turned to
leave. The thing was over. There was nothing more to say.

^ook here,” she said. “You can’t leave like this. After
—after you’ve told me there’s another woman!” Her voice
grew higher. There was a touch of hysteria in it now.
"Who is the woman? I want to know.”

"Don’t you know?” His voice was suddenly stem. “I
thought maybe you’d guessed.”

“Someone we know? Some double-crossing friend of
mine? Some—”

"Calm yourself, Nell,” he said.* “It’s too late for all
that. 'The other woman— don’t you really know?— is you.
The girl you were when I married you.”

“Oh!” she said. And again, “Oh!” And began to cry
once more. “Isn’t there some way? Some way?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’ve tried to find a way for
a long time. Please stop crying. And see Bill Rutgm^ in
the morning. You’ll feel better then. You haven’t been
that other girl in a long time. You won’t miss me after
you get used to the idea. You haven’t missed me for a
long time, and I’ve really been away, you know.” He put

•all*

his hand on her shoulder and saicl, very gently: “Good*
bye, Kell. 'I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

She was still sobbing, but very softly, as he left thtf
room. Now that she knew who her rival^was, sl^ knew
there wasn’t any use trying to fight against her.

312 *